Thirteen Years Without You
by Paxa.Romana
Summary: One photograph was all it took before two people, along with some next generation teenagers with clumsily dug roots in the family tree, found themselves in the whirlwind flashback of a love they both had come to deem gone. TxG ; final chapter!
1. Black Sheep

Thirteen Years Without You

A High School Musical Fanfic by Desireé Lemmon

Setting: Future, East Coast

Disclaimer: Me on fanfiction. Do the math.

A/N It's the (second) return of TYWY! I know, I am so horrible because this story, like, can't stay up for the life of it, but here's the deal: my computer or Fanfiction (not sure which one) wouldn't let me update at all, something went haywire and I just decided starting over might be better. If you're reading this, then I was right. :) So I've come up with a new habit: lyrics at the beginning of every chapter, sometimes, like in this part, at the end, too. A girl who writes mostly Hairspray fanfiction gave me the idea, instead of a few songfic chapters every once in a while, have one or two stanzas at the beginning. Enjoy, guys! Hope y'all liked Poster Child. -love- Desireé

Edit- I noticed people were confused the last time they read this, but please just be patient. _Everything_ that should be confusing will get clarified by the beginning/middle of the third chapter, I promise.

Chapter One, Black Sheep

_I want you to know, with everything I won't let this go._

_These words are my heart and soul,_

_I hold onto this moment you know._

'_Cause I'd bleed my heart out to show that I won't let go._

_-'With Me,' Sum 41_

The window shop was bare and shabby, a worn and tattered cloth draped across a crate that sat squarely in the middle, turned slightly to show off its none-too-impressive second side. The front door, made of glass, barely gave a glimpse of the inside to any given passerby, but that held little interest for the owner, who was much too old to care for silly fun facts anymore. She was weary and fragile and unusually anti-social, which conveniently fit the budget for a woman in her early thirties. An arguing customer would get their bidding price in a single second, although it's difficult to understand why anyone would want to _buy_ something from the Witching Hour. The owner had been too moody to mind the odd title when she first bought the deed to the building those many years ago, although her mind had stirred with ideas for new names a few months after the shack became hers. By that time, though, the handful of regulars who visited often for coffee or simple conversation had grown used to the eerie label, as had she. Sometimes the ability to care was too much of a burden.

Upstairs was her apartment, mostly abandoned upon her arrival. Two bedrooms, one bath, and the narrow little kitchen that captured her fascination most. Albeit several things had dulled considerably in her mind, one of her personal loves remained: cooking.

What joy it was to bring taste to life, to unearth an incredible euphoria of flavor and spices and other homely ingredients. She never had anyone for whom she could cook frequently—certainly old broads similar to her were undeserving of genuine company. But she still thrived on the feeling of a whisk in her hand, or a few recipes beneath her touch. Occasionally she would stir up some lively dish and bring it down to a doting customer, lonely and cross just like she was. They would finish every last bite, eager for more. By this point, the owner would have reached her weekly limit and shake her head, patting the customer's shoulder and saying, "Maybe tomorrow."

The town was sparse, the population still for more than ten years. The children, who made up about a third of the community, spent their days at school, at the park, or at the movies. The adults kept themselves busy with their small enterprises and organizations that were necessities to the district's survival. The Witching Hour, among the bank and the market and the post office, was the birthday present store. Any birthday did not go without a gift from the tiny shop, which carried everything from wagons and telephones to bells and sneakers. The owner wasn't proud of the randomly-stocked outlet; in fact, she downright despised it sometimes. But, like all else, it was now a part of her.

…

New York was a big city, with plenty of characters and experiences to come with it. Locals and tourists alike were magnetized to the urban life, basking in its skyscrapers' shadows and the glow of city lights. A particularly well-known artist loft in the Village was buzzing with post-Thanksgiving pre-Christmas excitement at the moment, as the host was scrambling around the rooms, trying to cater to every guest's need. "Eggnog! More eggnog!" (It was only reasonable to assume the eggnog had been spiked, thus provoking the desire for more.) "Where's the bathroom?" "I'm actually allergic to shellfish and am a vegan otherwise. Do you have any tofu?"

Somewhere in the apartment, his children were hiding from the mass of visitors, all of whom were some type of famous, like their father and stepmother. The daughter, who had recently turned thirteen and never let anyone forget it, tilted her head and let it lean against the wall. "Ugh, I hate these holiday parties," she sighed, "They always end up in a bad mood in spite of the commercial cheerfulness and Dad never gets a maid service to clean it up or anything. _We're_ always picking up after these pigs."

Beside her, the brother, two years older, chided softly, "You know he's trying to get used to the social scene, too. It's been nearly six years and he still isn't good at the picture flashing in public and the constant autograph pleads. Even when he comes to pick us up at school there's screams for him, and of course he acts like it's so weird all the girls _I_ want to ask out like him."

"Ew, they have such bad taste," the girl replied. Truthfully, she loved her father very much. But his status on the society scale was rapidly increasing, going from low key artist just a few years ago to big time painter living between SoHo and the Village. "I just wish he'd perk up and have fun for once. It seems like he finds all this an obligation. We have enough money for an assistant and a manager and stuff like that. I think if Dad had an entourage, we'd be a much less dysfunctional family."

The door to the room in which they hid opened, and their father appeared. "We're not dysfunctional," he reminded the girl, who seemed irritated by the sudden discovery of their secret spot. "Now come help me refill the snacks table. I know Cassandra said you guys could relax tonight, but I really need back up."

The girl groaned as she stood up. Patting her father's shoulder, she said in a facetious but sober tone, "In the real world, Dad, it's called the hired help."

…

He had tried to call her several times after she left. Of course, she assumed it was because he had no idea how to care for the things she had left _behind_, but her maternal instinct was too weak to overcome her hesitance to pick up the phone. This town, this realm, was far, far away from where they had started life together, and she admitted to liking it. Surely he couldn't come with her. Not when they had different goals to achieve. When she was packing, there was a small feeling of guilt harvesting inside her. But she ignored the regret quickly and zipped the duffle bag. Somewhere else, things would be different.

That somewhere else happened to be about a hundred and twenty-three miles south, on the border between New York and New Jersey. The community was prominently small, if that made any sense. People welcomed her with such grace, she nearly fell backward at the rush of warmth that first day. It wasn't until then that she had realized she had forgotten what _nice_ was. Certainly there was the factor that the townspeople had not seen a single new face in over a decade, but she still appreciated the hospitality. No one had expected another citizen, so she found solace in the shop-and-board that had been up for sale for more than a year. The prior owner had no interest but to be rid of the property, so payments were made quickly and she was soon settled in the miniature metropolis of Sampson.

The area was discreet enough so she knew he could never find her, even if he wanted to. Certainly after dumping so much responsibility on him, the woman was positive he would want nothing to do with her. Sometimes she wondered what had happened to him and the world she had had given up. The city was so lively and loud; here, in Sampson, it was quiet and dull. There was a comfort in the way the locals had never seen a beach or a zoo or an airplane. She gravitated toward their lack of modern day knowledge.

True, there was little company for her in Sampson. People had offered friendship, but she denied each time. At thirty-four, she had become the old lady who owned the Witching Hour, and all its misfit toys and objects inside. In a storybook, her character would come with twenty-five cats and the skeleton of the husband she killed back in the eighties stuffed in the closet. But this wasn't Mother Goose. This was real life, something that came as a brooding inconvenience more often than not.

Four particle people knew her well, and that group never lessened or grew during her time in Sampson. The first person was Zora, a widow who didn't speak to her children nor any other family members. She was in Sampson for the same reasons; to get away. Originally, she had been a thriving singer at a club in Los Angeles, but the people on the West Coast were not compatible with her middle-aged mood. A refugee in a small town, Zora was kind and thoughtful but sharply spoken and firm. Like a mother should be.

The second person was Jude, a young man in his late twenties that she had first met the day she arrived. He had been a teenager, flamboyant and jovial and lighthearted. But after an allegation in his Florida university college sent him to jail, he had nowhere to go back home. This put a damper on his spirit; one could understand a man as outgoing as he was should not be kept in a small town filled with people that had little experience with life's best features. Therefore, he found relief with the Witching Hour and all its oddities. They gave him amusement, and for that he was grateful.

The third person was Oliver, a high school dropout who had a connection with the Witching Hour by making it his childhood playground. His mother had been highly unqualified to properly care for him and his four sisters, thus making five babysitting agencies around town. Oliver, the eldest, had grown to be a part of the shop as well, and treated it as his second home, especially since his mother had found out he had quit senior year. She wasn't happy, but Oliver didn't mind. "She rarely is," he offered dryly one afternoon.

The fourth person was Adeline, a temperamental schoolteacher who had gone through five divorces in her twenty-eight year life. She usually came by at the end of the day, to chat and to enjoy a cappuccino. Though the drink was usually bitter, the fact that someone would even make her a beverage was good enough. She explained through tears her husbands had always been awful bastards that never made it past the third month. The owner would always hug her for support and make her a big dinner that would send her home full.

The quartet of different dispositions were unaware of the other three's existence. They all were associated with the Witching Hour in their own way, but all visited, suitably, at different times. Not that the owner thought they would mind sharing her amity; there wasn't a lot to lose when it came to someone who was as enervated as often as she was. But she only needed one friend at a time, and that was what they gave her: Oliver in the morning, Zora in the afternoon, Adeline in the evening, and Jude at night. Sometimes they would skip a session, opting for another place with other people. The owner never thought anything of it. She didn't blame them; her odds and ends boutique could only be so interesting.

As for her, she rarely left the shop. Eventually, she had gotten help from her four confidantes to let her continue being a solitary Sampson resident. Oliver could deliver groceries, and Adeline would give her any old books she no longer needed for class. Zora had plenty of records and CDs that had made it to her stereo once in a blue moon, before being passed onto the Witching Hour owner's collection. As for Jude, well, he could give her a laugh.

The townsfolk, with the exception of the exclusive tetrad that personally knew her, had come to call her the Black Sheep of Sampson. She stayed away, and never bothered to make contact with anyone more than she was obligated; a patron wanted to buy that tacky lamp shade she had placed in the corner? "Four ninety-five," left her mouth, and that was all besides, "Thank you, have a nice day."

She had _tried_ phone therapy. It was out of the question to leave for a psychiatrist's office, and absolutely no one could come into the shop to evaluate the messiness and disorderly array of things. This left long hours of over-the-phone confessions with a Miss Valerie Miller up in Long Island. The psychologist had attempted mental assessment with lots of "How do you feel about that?" questions and a few "Crying doesn't hurt, you know" reassurances, but it didn't ever help much. After a whopping bill of two hundred and seventy-one dollars, the woman deserted the idea of psychiatric help.

The thirteen years she had spent in Sampson had been good to her, the upcoming New Year's ringing in an anniversary. What she didn't know was that the thirteen years _he_ had spent without her had been certainly not good to him.

_I don't want this moment to ever end,_

_where everything's nothing without you._

A/N: I know some may think reviews don't mean anything, but trust me, they're _so_ helpful, so please do review! -love- Desireé


	2. Photograph

Chapter Two,

A/N: Only one review? Ah maybe it's the summary. I'm trying to imply Troyella without giving too much away… Anywho, please review! I've worked quite hard on this story, I've already got seven chapters written. There's quite a large plot to come, and I'd like to hear if it's worth publishing?

Okay, I've revised the story so the season is winter, early December right now. If you find anything that says otherwise, please forgive, I've searched the entire document a million times to look for timeline references, and I _think_ I've got them all. -love- Desireé

Chapter Two, Photograph

_This is the clock upon the wall_

_This is the story of us all_

_This is the first sound of a newborn child,_

_before he starts to crawl_

_This is the war that's never won_

_This is a soldier and his gun_

_This is the mother waiting by the phone,_

_praying for her son_

_-'Pictures of You,' The Last Goodnight_

It was sometime in the A.M. that Oliver dropped by with the weekly delivery of groceries. Five paper bags frosted with snow flurries, rustling in with the wind and a chatterbox teenager. He smiled as Gabriella took the bags gratefully from his arms and handed him two flat, crisp ten dollar bills. She kissed his cheek and stuffed her wallet back in the top left drawer of her desk, which had been seldom used in her time as a disorganized loner of the town. There was a soft pause, expected from the both of them, before she offered some coffee. He nodded, relishing in her proposal before quietly saying thank you. A few minutes later, they sat on the sofa in the front room of her apartment, staring ahead at the painting, the only piece of art in the entire building, that hung upon the wall.

"Who is the artist?" Oliver would ask later as he readied to leave for work. He would stare at the corners of the canvas to find no name. This would interest him.

"An old friend," Gabriella would answer evenly. "Just an old friend."

"Have you spoken to him recently?" Oliver would want to know, stirring the last bits of his lukewarm beverage with his index finger. He, being a smart child, of course would know it was a 'him'.

"I think it's time you go," would be the curt reply. Oliver would nod, taking the hint that she didn't feel like talking about it. He would kiss her cheek and leave in a flourish, dropping his mug into the sink on the way out with a clank. Gabriella would always check to see if the glass had cracked; it never would.

**TYWY**

The Bolton Family Tree was quite messy, but one particular picture caught your eye like a shiny new penny. Troy Bolton, artist and photographer extraordinaire, stared back at you with a relaxed smile and a glint in his gaze. Many people complimented his looks and said he should become an actor, or a model. And every time this came up, he would tip his head back and give a forced laughter, patting either of his children on the head, whoever was closer. Arielle, the younger, would wince as her father's fingertips rapped her skull, while Harris, the older, would wait patiently for Troy's act to be over, and then be on his merry way.

The other half of Arielle's and Harris' genetics on the tree, Cassandra Noel was a world renowned supermodel with long tan legs and wavy blond hair that rivaled a lion's mane, to be blunt. The woman, the children knew, had replaced the maternal picture long ago. Oh, no, she wasn't _really_ their mother. Just someone to call upon in the later months of their childhood; it had never been any other way. Harris considered his birth mother a ghost, although Arielle had always been interested in the nearly fictional woman, especially in more recent days.

There was only one picture of Gabriella in the entire house, and it was a Polaroid with writing scribbled on the back that lay beneath Arielle's pillow. She was young, in her late teens, most likely, with long smooth black hair and a stunning smile. She wasn't looking at the camera, but to the side where the picture cut off. It was obviously taken at a party, judging by the looks of the background, and the date and title scrawled on the back. 'October 20, 2007. Autumn Social.'

The discovery of the photo had been during a rainy day wedged between Halloween and Thanksgiving when Arielle was cleaning out her closet. Troy was away for the weekend, on a quick holiday in Vermont with Cassandra. While Harris, a fifteen-year-old with very little aspiration to move more than necessary, chose to recline on the sofa in front of an HBO movie, his sister surveyed every box and bag in the loft. She had been going through her father's things when she found the picture.

She knew it was her. Troy refused to mention their real mother; Cassandra, in his eyes, had done her job to fill the void which Gabriella had created when she left. He always changed the subject when things like other grandparents and cousins came up; Arielle's curiosity was especially uncomfortable during times like Mother's Day. And now that she had found the one thing Troy kept to remind himself of his first love, things would be different.

"You're insane," Harris had told her when she showed him the picture. "Just give it up, Ari. Gabriella Montez doesn't exist. And to her, we don't either."

These words seemed to staple pain into Arielle. She grimaced at her brother, purposefully knocking the remote down from the sofa's arm when she stomped away; Harris rolled his eyes. "Your tantrums won't get you anywhere!" he yelled over his shoulder.

Something tugged at her to explore further. She was thirteen; didn't that give her room to be nosy? All teenagers were prying and intrusive—that's what the movies dictated. And with two superstar parents, Arielle had seen a _lot_ of movies. She even had her own haven of DVD stacks dedicated to one wall of her side of the room that she shared with Harris. A sliding door divided their space, allowing minimal privacy, although it was strange Troy just didn't move them into bigger living quarters. When Arielle suggested a penthouse or a home on the waterfront, he smiled. "The family has too much history here, A," he replied, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Now, reflecting upon that, Arielle shivered. _Family_. It just didn't sound right. Who were they kidding when they all posed together at press events? Cassandra had just recently celebrated her thirtieth birthday. Did people actually think she did a good job of acting motherly?

One half of their celebrity was quite new. Troy's artistic ability was only discovered six years earlier, a few months after he married already-famous Cassandra, whose popularity had been the main reason of his later glory. At the time, Arielle had been seven and Harris had been nine. The children, they told their father, were fine without a mother (even though they each had some sort of longing for a mother's love). They insisted they didn't need another parent, but Troy married her anyway. "She's a good person," he had said indignantly. Arielle wondered if Gabriella had been, too.

"Why do you think our mother left?" Arielle asked that cold November night, wondering if maybe _they_ were the reason of the woman's abandonment. Harris was flipping through a text book in his room when she asked the question. The boy looked up, and she felt a pang of jealousy. He looked a lot like Gabriella.

"Man, you don't quit, do you, Ari?" he sighed, rolling off the edge of his bed. "What's got you so worked up over her? You can't really call her our mother—a mother is someone who provides affection and care for her children. _Cassandra_ is our mom, Arielle. Not Gabriella. Not the one who dropped us like hot potatoes."

She felt her lower lip quiver. "How could you say that, Harris? Maybe she had a reason to leave. Maybe she really loved us but couldn't stay. And Cassandra is not our mother. She's barely known us for half our lives. Whether you like it or not, Gabriella _is_ our mother. You never give anyone the benefit of the doubt and that's—that's probably why you never make any friends," she said cruelly. He glanced at her with a particular anger.

"At least I'm not socially inept," he snapped back, "Ms. Save the Earth and Hug a Tree. I wonder why no one talks to you at our superficial yet very highly-esteemed school?" Arielle's eyes widened and Harris bit his tongue in regret over his words, but she glowered as she left, stomping to the phone to dial her father's number.

He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" he answered. Soft music played in the background. They were out on the town. "Ari, is that you? What's up?"

"Dad," she began, bracing herself, "What was our mother like? And I'm not talking about Cassandra. I mean Gabriella. How did she laugh? Where did she like to go to eat? Did she like art, too?"

There was a silence on the other end of the phone, and for a moment Arielle thought the call had been lost or, maybe, ended by Troy. But he finally exhaled and said, "What's wrong, A? Do you want me to come home? We can get in the car right now and we'll be there by tomorrow morning."

Tears were portentously close. "No, Dad, it's fine. Enjoy yourself. See you Sunday," she mumbled, setting the phone down on the receiver. At that moment, she had never wanted to know what Gabriella Montez was doing more.

_Down in Sampson…_

That day, Zora was busy with redecorating (what exactly, she was unsure), so Gabriella had the afternoon to herself. She walked upstairs after flipping the open sign to closed, her legs groaning with the staircase. Finally, the apartment swallowed her in an ocean of vanilla, and she smiled at the scented candle resting on the kitchen counter. There was a meow, and the neighborhood cat who had a particular fondness for her lap, Ginny, appeared at her feet. "Hello, Gin," she murmured, kneeling down to run her hand down the feline's back. "You hungry? Oliver just got some new food today."

The Siamese, who had a lethargic behavior much like her own, followed her into the kitchen and mewed appreciatively when Gabriella opened a can and dumped the food into a bowl on the floor. "Eat up well, I'm not about to throw out your leftovers," she reminded uxoriously. Her fingers suddenly itched for something she hadn't done in a long time. Piano.

Kelsi had taught her a few pieces in high school. She had played mostly from memory, although there were a few songbooks she knew how to read. "What shall I play, Ginny?" she asked the animal. The cat kept eating, and Gabriella smiled, before wandering into the living room. The piano was pressed against the wall, and hadn't been played in over four years. Laying a finger on a key in the very middle, she flinched slightly. It was out of tune. Most things were, though.

**TYWY**

There was now suddenly an uproar of Gabriella. Troy winced as he thought of her. They had been so crazily in love with one another, there weren't another two people in the world who were more in love. So much laughter, and giggling, and appreciation of life. They were _thrilled_ to be with child at nineteen years old. After that, though, things had started to go downhill.

"Honey, you all right?" Cassandra stared across the table, tapping his hand sweetly as their dinner dates, a couple who were interested in buying some of his art pieces, looked on, worried. "You scared us there for a minute."

"I-I think I need some fresh air," Troy replied, tugging his cloth napkin out of his collar. "Excuse me." He stood up and darted out of the room, leaving his trophy-like wife to reassure the buyers that all was well.

"May I get you something, sir?" the maître d' asked when Troy passed the front podium. But the artist didn't answer as he seized a handful of mints from a glass bowl beside the host and hurried outside. The bread roll he had just digested soon met the dirt outside again, and he knelt into a bush, feeling his body violently contract.

A woman walked by with her baby on her hip. "Are you all right?" she asked, sounding alarmed.

He looked up and shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you," he replied unconvincingly, leaning back into the greenery. She shrugged and kept walking. When he finally felt his insides cool down, he unwrapped a mint. And another. And another. It would unquestionably be upsetting to Cassandra if he returned to the dinner table with bitter breath.

**TYWY**

Certainly Harris had some interest in learning about Gabriella at one point or another. He had secretly scrutinized the Polaroid of her the next morning after its discovery to see the resemblance. Like her, he had black hair and dark skin and mild-mannered expression with a relaxed grin. The only exception was the sapphire eyes both he and Arielle inherited. Their gazes were similar to Troy's, and both had the slightly slouch that had always annoyed Cassandra.

"What are you doing?" Harris, surprised, dropped the picture and turned to see a bath-robed Arielle standing in the doorway, shaking out her wet hair with a towel as she came beside him to stare down at the snapshot on the floor. "Oh. She's beautiful."

"Yes," Harris replied, "She is." They were both hesitant before Arielle finally reached for the photograph, examining the writing on the back.

"Who do you think took this?" she asked.

"Maybe a friend," Harris said casually, "Or maybe even Dad."

A smile graced Arielle's lips. "No, I think she's looking at Dad." Squinting, she nodded. "Yes, I can see in the way she smiles. He's out of frame, but there's definitely some scene going on between them," she said.

Harris didn't respond. He, unlike his sister, didn't want to get involved with a nonexistent past. Arielle still kept the photo beneath her pillow, though, and glanced at it every night before she went to bed. Since the phone call in Vermont, Troy hadn't heard any outbursts or questions about Gabriella from his daughter. He hadn't the slightest idea she had found the one key to his past, and Arielle intended to keep it that way.

"It isn't fair," she moaned one evening as she lay on her bed, clutching the photo, bearing in mind that the next month (and her birthday) lay around the corner. It was cold that day; winter was a harsh season for New Yorkers. Harris was across the way, after they had opted to keep the sliding door open for the sake of the heater. "I have obsessed over this stranger for the past two weeks, and yet I feel like it's all to waste! _You_ at least have some personal connection, Mr. Abercrombie, you wallow in her genetics every day."

The teenager harrumphed and her brother glanced up from the book he was reading. "Just give it up, Arielle," he said shortly. "You're missing out on so much because you insist there's more traces of Gabriella in this apartment, but there _aren't_."

"Stop calling her 'Gabriella,'" Arielle complained. "You act like she's—"

"She's just a shadow, a spirit, a _myth?_ Yes, Ari, that's what she is. You can't keep this charade up for much longer. Dad's gonna find out and Cassandra—our _real_ mother—won't be happy either." Harris rubbed the back of his neck and his eyes closed. "You act like it's a destiny to find her. Just quit while you're ahead, A. The fall will be much less painful."

_Pictures of you, pictures of me_

_Remind us all of what we could have been_

A/N: There has only been two chapters yet many original characters have been introduced, so here's a heads up: only the children are the people who have much importance. The original high school gang is in here, too, just not until later. -love- Desireé


	3. Hot Chocolate

Chapter Three,

A/N: Okay, I realized this when I finished the chapter: in all of my stories, Troy has a different job, while I usually keep Gabriella at bay with writing… At one point, Troy was a photographer, another time he worked for a magazine, and now he's an artist. :) I'm sorry for the inconsistency. I just have this tiny fixation with his career possibilities, as I've never seen him as the NBA type. Just my… opinion, I guess. Anyway, I suppose this note serves very little purpose, but consider it a fun fact. -love- Desireé

Lizzie- You do have a point. :) But don't worry, this story isn't going anywhere.

Real Fun Fact: I just watched _The Departed_ for the second time. I'm totally pro-peace and everything, but Leonardo DiCaprio is just so good at making everything he does (in this case, shooting) so… hot. Okay, this fun fact also serves little purpose, I just like inserting them every now and then.

Chapter Three, Hot Chocolate

_How many times do I have to try to tell you_

_That I'm sorry for the things I've done_

_But when I start to try to tell you_

_That's when you have to tell me_

_Hey... this kind of trouble's only just begun_

_-'Why,' Annie Lennox_

Like New York, New Jersey had cold winters, too. Gabriella felt a chill run down her spine when she walked down the stairs into the shop one morning sometime in the early December days that followed the night of the conversation Harris and Arielle had. Ginny followed her unofficial owner, mewling like she had nothing else to do. In Sampson, this was most likely accurate. "What is it, Gin?" Gabriella cooed maternally as she drew the curtains across the front windows of the Witching Hour. Flipping the sign from closed to open, she stood back to survey the outlet. Still just as erratic as always.

The front door opened minutes later, and while she expected to see Oliver, instead she saw an unfamiliar face. Small town, she mused silently, I know everyone. Who is this? "Good morning," the person, a tall woman in a pea coat, said brightly. "My husband and I are driving through town, and I heard this is quite a wonderful store. I'm glad I stopped by, the name outside was quite interesting."

"Ah," Gabriella responded blandly. She didn't feel like socializing. "There's a lot to choose from, not much organization, though. If you need anything, I'll be at my desk." She resumed to the dusty wooden chair in the corner, blowing off the layer of grime that had collected over the years of neglect. Paperwork surrounded her on both sides. Where to start first? "Bottoms up," she mumbled.

**TYWY**

For Arielle, the lone picture of Gabriella gave little satisfaction. As the holiday season prolonged, she was granted a new idea to further her investigation of the woman's past and life with Troy. When she told Harris the plan, his jaw clenched and his face paled slightly. "It isn't a good or even _likely_ scheme," he warned her, grimacing as she daringly picked up the phone and let the dial tone moan for a second. "Ugh, come on, Ari, it's Sunday, don't bother them, they're probably busy."

These words didn't faze Arielle. She flipped through her father's address book, ignoring the celebrity contacts recorded in Cassandra's loopy penmanship. "Danforth, Danforth… Ah! Here we are. Chad and Taylor Danforth. You know, they were so nice to us when we were younger. Why didn't we invite them over more often?"

As his sister dialed the Westchester number, Harris glanced out the window tentatively, tapping his fingers against the glass. Troy was still saying goodbye to Cassandra and her parents, two older people who seemed especially impatient at the constant paparazzi flashes coming from the bushes. They would be gone for two weeks, away at some expensive resort that hadn't interested Troy. "Ari, seriously I doubt Dad is going to be too thrilled you randomly called up his friends from high school. I mean, it's like an invasion of privacy."

This was also ignored by Arielle. She covered the phone's mouthpiece with her hand and squealed, "It's ringing! It's ringing!" She bounced on her feet for a moment and beamed. "I haven't seen them in ages. You think they're any different?"

Before Harris could yet again express his distaste for the situation, the line finally picked up; it was the message machine. "Hey! You've reached Chad, Taylor, and their fuzzy pet chinchilla, Skittles! Neither of us are home, and Skittles probably can't work a phone, so leave a message and we'll get back to you!" This, obviously, from Chad, but it didn't end there. Soon Taylor could be heard. "Goodness, Chad, delete that monstrosity of a message now. What if my family calls and—" _Beep_.

A moment passed where Arielle wasn't sure what to say. She bit her lip and stared at Harris, who waited to see what would happen. Finally she spoke, "Um, hi, this is Ari Bolton. You probably don't remember me—I'm Troy's daughter? I, uh, just had a question, if you could call me back, that would be great. Um, thanks again. Bye." She hung up and her eyes lit up. "This might work, Harris! I think they can tell us about Mom!"

The scene outside progressed. The boy frowned at his day so far. It was barely noon and already Arielle was carrying out her duty of causing mayhem. "Stop calling her 'Mom,'" he sighed irritably. Looking down at the street, he saw Cassandra & Co. finally pile into her limousine, the horn tooting as they drove away and Troy waved. "I think I can speak on behalf of Dad when I say Gabriella is not our mother."

"Then who _is_ our mother?" Arielle shot back, tapping her foot expectantly. "I can't call Cassandra my mother—you can't either, and you know that, Harris, just as well as I do." The front door opened and Troy entered, looking particularly tired and certainly in no mood to learn of his daughter's antics, which was fine with her.

In spite of his fatigue, he smiled sincerely. "Well, Cass and her parents will be gone for a while. What do you guys feel like doing?" The phone rang as he finished his sentence, and with a glance at the screen, confusion set in as he raised his eyebrows. "What area code is—"

"I've got it!" Arielle screamed, darting past her father and seizing the phone from his hands. He watched her go as she ran down the hall, into her room, closing the door behind her. The ringing soon stopped.

Troy eyed Harris. "Anything going on that I should know about?" he asked. The black-haired boy smiled with a doe-eyed expression, rocking on is feet as he nervously shook his head.

"Nothing," he said anxiously, twiddling his thumbs. "Probably just a boy from school." Stupid, stupid, stupid, Harris chastised himself. No one at school would drive out all the way from Westchester.

A laugh came from Troy, and his son sighed with relief. The man bought it, somehow and some way. "Oh, right. I forgot she's thirteen now and she likes boys." He winced at the thought of his little girl dating. There had been several household—er, _loft_hold—arguments on the romance-policy; Cassandra advised Troy have Arielle wait. This had profoundly upset the girl, who put on her angry face and gave everyone the silent treatment for a week. Sometimes fatherhood still scared Troy, even though he had fifteen years behind him, half of those years on his own. No one was perfect.

"You all right, Dad?" Harris asked, seeing the feeble expression of the other's face.

"What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just tired," Troy offered. "Hungry, too. You hungry? Maybe I can make you some lunch."

His eyes filled with interest, Harris followed his father into the kitchen. "Since when do you cook, Dad?" he asked.

Watching her all those years, Troy thought, his heart's stitched wounds splitting free again. "Oh, I just picked up a few tricks here and there," he finally said. "So, you like chicken or turkey?"

_Arielle has a speakerphone call with Chad and Taylor._

There was hesitance in Chad's voice. "You know, Ari, maybe you should ask your dad these things. We're not exactly A material here. I'm sure Troy would know a lot more than we do."

For what seemed like the tenth time, Arielle sighed. "But that's why I'm calling _you guys_. My dad acts like Gabriella, our _real_ mother, never existed. But I know she did! I have a picture of her! And the back has the date, and it says 'Autumn Social.'"

A gasp came through the line, this time from Taylor. "I remember that," she said softly. "Kelsi took the pictures with her dad's old Polaroid and gave them out to everyone. She—Gabriella, I mean—s-she's wearing a red dress, isn't she?"

"Yes!" Arielle exclaimed. "And she's looking off to the side, at someone. It's my dad, isn't it? She's looking at him and smiling."

"I-I don't know, but I think so. Gosh, they were always together, so it wouldn't be a stretch to say it _was_ Troy." Taylor hummed quietly. "They were inseparable."

There was a moment where Arielle felt almost sick. How could something that sounded so wonderful, so harmonious fall apart? Was it destiny, or did someone have to decide, with their own free will, to ruin the magic? "They really were in love, weren't they?" she asked, her voice nearly inaudible.

"Yes," Chad replied. "They were." He sounded penitent.

"Well, what happened? Where did she go, why did she leave?" Arielle asked, her words trembling. "Did she love Harris and me, too? Did she want to leave us?" Several questions rambled through her mind, begging to be answered after so many years of silence.

There was faint arguing between Chad and Taylor for a minute. They whispered gently, letting Arielle wait, wanting and wishing. Finally, a voice came through. Taylor. "Honey? Listen, Ari, I'm the last person you'll ever know to invite themselves anywhere, but this is a long story. D-do you think—do you think we could drive out there to meet you? You may want to sit down for this."

**TYWY**

It was, one could say, a father's job to be suspicious, as it was a teenager's to be nosy. Troy glanced tentatively at his daughter as she reemerged in the living room, holding the phone with a smile on her face. "Who were you talking to?" the man asked her, peeking at his watch out of habit. The second hand was approaching the twelve.

Arielle shook her head and set the phone down on the counter, thankful she had remembered to delete the Danforths' number from the recent call log. "Oh, Daddy, it was n-nothing, really. Um, actually—it was a boy, f-from school." Sibling telepathy, perhaps? Thank goodness. "And I was wondering if, possibly, I could g-go out with him to the movies tonight? _Please?_" Okay, so it was very much a lie, but she was still asking permission to go out. That had to count for something, right?

Troy squinted. "Do I know him?" he asked. Certainly he had seen all the prep students whenever he picked up Arielle and Harris after school. Granted there were always paparazzi snooping around, especially when Cassandra was with him, but of course he had seen the people his children knew good and well. "Is he a boy in your class?"

The two children glanced at one another. Arielle scratched her chin and shrugged. "He's just a friend from school," she said. "You probably wouldn't recognize the name."

"I'll go with her," Harris suggested. "Just to be safe. I can invite one of my friends and then it'll be a group date. Come on, Dad, we won't be out long. What time will you guys, uh, meet, Ari?"

"Five o'clock," she replied, staring at him with a balmy expression. "Please, Daddy?"

The sad thing was that Troy couldn't even tell they were lying, although there were several eminent context clues that hinted their fabricated story. For instance, both teenagers mentioned 'friends' several times, as if they had many, however they remained among the outcast society at the prepatory school Cassandra had recommended when they first began looking for junior highs. In spite of the famous family background, the children didn't mix well with snobby upper crust crowd. Arielle always insisted it was because their 'true parents weren't from that world of bad attitudes.' "Well," Troy said, swallowing, "I guess if you guys go as a group, it will be all right. But keep your phones on at all times and stay together. Okay?"

They declined his offer to play chauffeur, insisting they could walk. Some part of Troy was crushed as he watched them throw on their coats and scarves before Harris grabbed his lonely loft key and walked out with Arielle. Their father watched them from the loft's front room, calling as they got on the elevator, "Look both ways before you cross the street!" They waved slightly as the steel doors slid shut, and the elevator light turned off.

_A coffee shop seems like the perfect place for Taylor and Chad to reconnect with the Bolton offspring._

"Oh my gosh!" Taylor exclaimed when the teenagers, taller and leaner and older than they had been since she had last seen them, came into view. She ran and enveloped them each in a hug, declaring how different they looked. Arielle smiled and twirled in a circle, while Harris blushed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "You're so grown up!" she raved, hugging them for a second time.

The wind quickly died down and the sun peered out from behind the clouds. "Good to see you guys," Chad said warmly as he came up behind his wife. "Wow, you both look more and more like Troy and—" He stopped shortly, his eyes sweeping from Harris to Arielle and then back to Harris. Taylor cleared her throat and looked to her husband, patting his chest with a gloved hand before she smiled at the children.

"Well, it's certainly chilly out here, let's go inside and get ourselves some hot cocoa, yes? I think I'll have mine with marshmallows." The woman took her husband's hand and walked inside the café, taking a cozy corner booth for the four of them. "I haven't been to New York for so long. I think the last time was…" Her voice faded. The last time had been after Gabriella left, when Troy was a little, well, _unstable_.

Harris seemed slightly uncomfortable, but Arielle launched into another explosion of questions right away, talking animatedly with her hands and facial expressions. "Did you know our mother?" she asked, and silently noted her brother did not correct her this time. Maybe he was getting used to the idea. "In high school? What was she like? Was she a jockette, a geek, an artsy hippie? Was she popular? Were she and my dad a cute couple?" Harris nudged her and told her to slow down when she spoke. At this, she blushed, but the people across the table only smiled.

The waitress stopped by to ask if they needed anything. Chad ordered a round of hot chocolate while Taylor carefully evaluated her responses to the questions. "Yes, we did know Gabriella in high school," she said, clasping her hands. "We were actually best friends. I met her after she was the new girl in school; oh Gabriella was very smart, very talented, very personable. In fact, Chad and I worked against breaking her and Troy _up_ at one point. But that was the very beginning of the story, when we all had a considerably little idea of how truly in love they were with one another." She sighed blissfully. "We were all quite tightly packed as friends. But after high school, things began to change. Chad and I migrated east, just like they did, but we settled for a more suburban area in Westchester and they liked New York City."

A tray of mugs was set in the middle of their table, and each of them reached for their respective drink. Chad picked up the story. "Troy got interested in art after they moved out here. He was a huge basketball hotshot back in the day. I was, too, I guess," he added when his wife smirked at him, "but he was the star of the team. Give him ten basketballs, he'd make the shot every time from anywhere on the court." A smile spread across his face, as he looked out the window, grinning reminiscently at his past. "Well, granted Gabriella wasn't there to watch. The first time she came to cheer for us at practice, he missed every basket. His dad—your grandpa Jack was our coach, see—kept yelling at him to get his head back in the game, but Troy went all Shakespeare on us that day and said his head was in the clouds, and would forever stay that way. I guess all things changed, though." He sipped his drink ruminatively and leaned back against the seat.

"How did they meet?" Arielle asked, leaning forward. "In high school, of course, but what happened? They must have been just the _cutest_ sight ever, right?" Harris flicked her arm and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Yes," Taylor said, her lips warming up to a smile. "Well, actually, they met before that, on vacation. And, coincidentally, she ended up being transferred to our school the next semester. But at that point in time, we were all adamant about cliques remaining within their cliques. Gabriella was the brainiac, and Troy was the jock. It should have stayed that way, we thought at first, but we were shown differently when they auditioned for the school musical."

Eyes widened, Arielle smacked her brother's shoulder, and he mimicked her, face shocked in feigned delight. "They were in a _play_ together!" she squealed and he rolled his eyes. "So what happened, did they play lovers or something?"

Chad smirked. "Let's rewind for a second," he said. "It was all an accident, Troy insisted, they just were singing and the drama teacher liked what she heard. They competed against the Evans twins for the roles—"

"Sharpay? We know her! She's worked with Cassandra before!" Arielle cried, getting more and more excited by the second.

"—and in the end, Chad and I realized the error of our ways by trying to split them up," Taylor finished fondly, smiling at her husband, "because that meant splitting us up, too." She turned to the children. "The play was the first major severing of cliques. Gabriella and Troy were, basically, legends for what they did and because they remained themselves after dating. She still liked math and he liked basketball. And they still loved each other."

The fascination was striking in Arielle's crystal blue eyes. She rested her chin and her palm and let out a sigh. "Why did she leave, then?" she asked. She hesitated before asking, "Did she stop loving our dad?"

"No, that would be impossible to do," Taylor replied. "There is a point in life when a person loves someone so much, there is no way to ever go back on that emotion, regardless of what happened between them or to them. I think Gabriella loved Troy very much, she just couldn't—she couldn't stick around to see what would happen."

Now Harris looked up. "What do you mean?" he inquired, wiping off some whipped cream from his chin.

"It's just that he was still playing basketball and she was still writing, and they were trying to figure out what to do with their lives," Chad explained. "He discovered art and she co-owned a little boutique in Times Square, but I guess she wanted more to be done in a shorter time. He, honestly, couldn't give her what she wanted, but Troy didn't realize that until she left."

Both children were quiet. Arielle unfolded and folded her napkin over again, before looking back up at the people sitting across from them. "Did she—" Her voice cracked, and she paused for a moment to take a breath. "Did she love us?"

Taylor looked at Chad and Chad looked at Taylor, their mouths open slightly as if they each were trying to rally some sensible words. "Honey, we weren't really… We weren't really in touch with Troy and Gabriella after they had Harris. They were having some disagreements, and we were in college, out in Westchester," Taylor said, "But I know they were very happy when Harris was born. And I'm sure they were happy when you were born, too." She reached over to rest her hand on Arielle's, and the girl looked at her with glossy eyes. Glossy, aqua eyes.

The waitress asked if they'd like anything else. Chad mumbled for more hot chocolate, and no one at the table protested. Arielle reached into her bag and rummaged through its contents for a moment before picking out the Polaroid. Chad's face went a shade whiter, and Taylor gasped. "It's her," she whispered softly. "Oh my god, it's her, Chad."

"Don't you have any pictures of her?" Harris asked, thanking the waitress as she gave them the second round of refreshments.

"Of course, so many pictures from being best friends in high school. But I've had them all these years, nothing new. That's why this—this is special," Taylor said, taking the picture from Arielle's hands. "I remember this night so clearly."

His arm around her shoulder, Chad grinned. "Yeah, I remember Ms. Darbus was the only school chaperone that really gave a damn about the rules," he laughed. Taylor ran a finger beneath her lashes and sniffled, carefully cradling the picture as if it were a lost treasure, delicate and antique.

"I missed her when she left, I still miss her now," she said with a regretful tone. Handing the picture back to Arielle, she smiled. "So I assume your father doesn't know you two are meeting us here." The teenagers shook their head. "Well, let's keep it that way. I think Chad and I should get back to knowing him on our own terms."

"He thinks I'm on a date right now," Arielle explained, "And Harris is 'supervising.'" She put finger quotes around the last word.

This time Chad laughed. "His dad did that to his sister April, despite the fact that Troy was a year younger and wouldn't have the means to pay attention to anything," he said, his lips curled up in a smirk.

"You guys want to see a movie?" Taylor offered after a silent moment. "It's only been forty-five minutes, I'm sure your father is smart enough to realize a date would be longer—a good one, at least." Arielle smiled and Harris did, too; it was uncanny how much one looked like their father and the other Gabriella.

As Chad paid for the drinks, the children and Taylor filed outside. "Thanks again for coming to meet us," Arielle said pleasantly. "I felt like I was in the dark for so many years, especially after our dad married Cassandra." She made a face and the Danforths looked at one another before shrugging slightly as their response.

While they got in line for tickets, Arielle turned to her brother and murmured, "I can't believe Dad never told us any of this! He acted like he and Gabriella hated each other, but it was the opposite!"

"We don't know that," Harris said pointedly, rocking on his heels.

"Oh, I don't see what's your problem, you emotionally incompetent ape," Arielle said with a sneer, but she smiled again. "Don't you care that Dad played basketball? All these years, you could have been shooting hoops with him! Instead of learning about historical paintings." She held up her nose as if an obnoxious fume drifted around them.

"Ari, I don't have one athletic bone in my body," the dark-haired boy replied, watching Taylor speak to the theater employee through the window. "I couldn't even play handball in the third grade when we had the big tournament."

"But you _could_ have. Maybe with Dad as a coach, like Grandpa Jack was his coach, you could have been a huge star, like he was. And if Gabriella stuck around," Arielle added, "maybe I'd be smart and talented like she was."

Harris put his arm around his sister. "You _are_ smart and talented, Ari," he told her.

She shrugged beneath his grip and sighed. "Yeah, but I wish she could have been there to tell me that, too. You're my brother, you have to say it. With her… I guess I think it would have been a little more genuine."

A/N: Phew! I think that's the longest chapter I've ever written. Sorry it revolved mostly around Arielle and Harris. I'm aiming for a more Gabriella/Troy centre by the next few chapters. Thanks guys for sticking with me. The story should pick up very soon. Reviews, friends! -love- Desireé


	4. Tumbleweed

Chapter Four,

A/N: Oh, good, I'm glad this is getting good feedback. We're going on a family vacation for the next few days, up until the twenty-sixth, so I doubt I'll be able to get any chapters up then, and even if I did, I think I want to pace this story a little more. Thanks, guys! -love- Desireé

Chapter Four, Tumbleweed

_Well she wants to be the queen_

_And she thinks about her scene_

_Pulls her hair back and she screams,_

_I don't really want to be the queen_

_-'Meet Virginia,' Train_

The moment Arielle and Harris walked in, the air to the loft felt different, if not downright suffocating. They had lived here for years, yet one afternoon had changed everything. Ignorant of their newfound knowledge of his past, Troy greeted them with a smile. He hugged his daughter and clapped his son on the back, asking how the date went. Arielle, blond-haired and blue-eyed, smiled. "It was fun. I learned a lot about myself," she replied splendidly, "more than I ever thought could exist."

The cheeky tone in her voice was lost on Troy. "Oh, really?" he asked. "How so?" Harris shot his sister a look, and she shrugged with an innocence of a child's.

"I didn't know how much has gone on." The boy glared at her and Arielle added, "I mean, at school. Lots to talk about. Very good icebreakers. Conversation's a powerful thing."

A glimpse of Harris made Troy stumble slightly. He looked _so_ much like Gabriella, the pain of losing her sometimes crept upon him in a most cruel way. "How was your date?"

"Fine," was all that came from the rather quiet boy, and Troy was bitterly compelled to accept this short answer, as it was the only offer from either of his children afterward.

**ooo**

When Gabriella left New York City, bags in hand, she also knew she'd be leaving everyone else, friends and family included. Taylor had only spoken to her the day before, and their conversation was relatively normal, after it was decided her plan of action was not someone else's millstone, regardless of their status in her life. Gabriella also knew the littler knowledge to her vanishing act, the better. No one had to know a single thing except that she would be gone for good.

She thought about them a lot when she first arrived in Sampson, especially Troy, but her reminiscing lessened as time went by. Soon the fab four she let into her new life became her world, and the people only a bit more than a hundred miles away evaporated from her mind.

Occasionally she'd pull out an album of high school memories. Any photos of Troy had been removed; she had a steadfast disinclination toward him that remained so after all these years. Once in a while she would frame a picture of her and Taylor, or perhaps Kelsi, and hang it up on the wall. The snapshot would come down eventually, though, when someone would spot the likeness and compliment their photogenic features. For some reason unknown, Gabriella couldn't stand to let anyone into her past. Most-likely, she was too afraid someone would maybe recognize her and drag her back to the city. That nightmare haunted her more than anything, which was slightly concerning due to the fact that most people would _assume_ as a mother, she would wonder about the children.

Mrs. Montez, despite many memories as being a good single mother to her, also had severed ties. Gabriella cut off all sources of Troy, who had grown close to Theresa over the time of the relationship. The shop owner knew her mother would ask why it was that her daughter had left, and what she could possibly do to convince her to go back home. Especially in this day and age, sometimes guilt would trap her thoughts like the innocent prey they were, and lecture how awful it was she hadn't spoken to her only parent in thirteen years. But again, she would wait for the shame to pass and move on. That's all one could do if they wanted to keep a straight face.

Eventually, she would call them. Maybe when Theresa was on her death bed, and Taylor was a grandmother, and all her other East High classmates were filling out forms to live in a senior home. But until then, Gabriella preferred to stay in the seclusion of a little New Jersey town where no one knew that she had left behind a family just up the coast. Just imagining what would be different had she stayed was much too painful a thought; she didn't think she would ever be able to face Troy again after that day she got on the train at Grand Central. This guilt was her incentive to click 'deny' for the ten-year reunion email she received some years ago.

Sometimes Zora or Adeline, being the more compassionate female friends, would ask if she ever had boyfriends or lovers, considering they never met anyone in the neighborhood that ever mentioned the name 'Gabriella' fondly. It was not in the shop owner's interest to confess her worries of what Troy had done after her epic exit, although the same afternoon she wondered about this, she found herself spilling her secrets to an innocent tumbleweed that had blown through town with her sons, in need of some warmth for the day.

"Thank you for letting us stay here for the evening," the woman said appreciatively, glancing around at the quaint shop. "My boys are quite restless sometimes, they just needed to get out of the car. So do you own this store?"

"I do." Gabriella nodded, struggling to appear happy as she poured them each a mug of coffee, an old habit she couldn't quit. "It's a big canvas of junk, I'm sure your sons will be able to find something entertaining for the time being. Where are you from originally?"

The woman smiled sadly as she sipped her beverage. "Well, we used to live in Boston, but after the boys' father moved to Paris—it was really an ugly separation—I decided they needed a holiday. So I sold the house, packed our bags, and now we're on somewhat of an adventure. I'm not sure what we could possibly do now—_living_ arrangements wasn't a concern of mine when I started the car. An impulse, I suppose. Now we'll bounce from town to town, hoping to find some comfort somewhere."

"Well, the best of luck to you," Gabriella mumbled softly, staring at the floor in an effort not to become emotional.

_"Going somewhere, Ms. Montez?" the doorman, Alan, asked curiously when he spotted Gabriella come outside the apartment lobby with her suitcases dragging behind her. "A winter vacation, perhaps? Where is the rest of the Bolton clan? Troy too engrossed in his art again?" At this, he laughed, picturing the young man crouched over his paints._

_If it were any other day, she would have replied happily, granting the man a warm smile and maybe a chipper laugh. Today, though, was not a good day to be intrusive. "I am not inclined to answer," she responded hastily. He looked slightly shocked, if not completely offended, as she flagged down a taxi and got the driver to load her bags into the trunk._

_"Something wrong, Ms. Montez?" Alan asked shortly, probably because he felt it was part of the job. His eyebrows were working fervently over his mind, which was most-likely storming with thoughts. "Should I call someone?"_

_She glanced at him, in an almost begging manor. "Please, forgot I was ever here, Alan. That would be the best thing for all of us." He shrugged promptly, turning back to the doors and waiting for some other resident to appear on the opposite side of the glass._

_"Where to, mum?" the cab driver asked when they were both buckled in the car._

_"Grand Central Station, please," she replied. He nodded, and Gabriella took out her wallet, deciding a ten would be ideal for the length of the drive. As she sifted through the bills, she couldn't stop glancing at the family photos that had accumulated over the past two years. They would go in the trash as soon as she got settled somewhere else, she decided. They would disintegrate with the wind, because that's all they were worth._

_This is a lie, she thought. They are worth the world, and yet I find their weight too much to carry. God help me._

"That is so awful," the woman sighed sympathetically. Gabriella sat up and blinked a few times before she realized she had been speaking aloud. Across from her, the woman reached out and patted her knee. "I'm so sorry you had to do that, it must have been difficult."

"Um," the brunette said, running her tongue along the back of the teeth. She sniffed. "It was. I'm not sure if it was a wise decision, I mean, _I'm_ the one who's alone thirteen years later in this tiny little town. Still, it was just this—this urgency I got one morning when I woke up. This sudden idea dawned upon me that maybe the path he was taking wouldn't lead me to my desires. That wasn't his fault, even though I did a poor job of telling him that. I just—I wanted out." She felt her hands tremble, and her eyes burn with tears. "Jesus Christ, I'm such a horrible mother for just… _abandoning_ them."

The woman did something unexpected, although Gabriella felt better after the surprise hug. "Oh, hon," the visitor said gently, tucking her chin over her shoulder, "We all make mistakes, some more intentional than others, but even so. My husband left us, and _he's_ an asshole. You, though, I can see you had your reasons."

Before the shop owner could respond, the two young boys appeared, holding old teddy bears that were dyed abominably vibrant colors of the rainbow. "Mommy, can we get these?" the older one asked. Their mother smiled and reached for her purse, asking what the cost of the stuffed animals was.

"Ah, take them," Gabriella said, waving her hand at the children. Her heart panged. She wondered what these littlies thought of her. Old Maid, she feared. "On the house. They've been ignored for a while, anyway, I think they deserve some attention."

"Oh?" The woman beamed. "Why, thank you! That's one souvenir for the trip. How about it, boys? Let's hit the road again, before it gets too dark to see at all. This town is especially strange, with no street lights." She turned to Gabriella and exhaled buoyantly. "Thank you for letting us in for a little while. We needed the pit stop." Something coaxed the shop owner to invite them to stay for dinner, but she only nodded quietly and offered a smile to the mother and children.

The boys hugged their new bears and waved graciously from their seats in the car when the Focus drove off. Gabriella found herself waving back from the shop stoop, grinning at nothing when they disappeared around the corner. "It was fun while it lasted," she sighed. Why did everything end at one point or another?

Oh, right. 'What goes up, must come down.' Of course.

A/N: I didn't particularly love this chapter, but I think it was like a Wednesday: the hub in the middle of the week, the necessary day (or chapter) to move onto the next thing, which you'll probably enjoy more since it's the weekend. -love- Desireé


	5. Fortune

Chapter Five,

A/N: Hope everyone had a nice holiday, whatever it is you celebrate. Here is the fifth chapter, which I actually enjoyed writing. Enjoy reading it! -love- Desireé

Chapter Five, Fortune

_Sometimes that mountain you've been climbing_

_Is just a grain of sand_

_What you've been out there searchin' for forever_

_Is in your hands_

_Oh, When you figure out love is all that matters after all_

_It sure makes everything else seem so small_

_-'So Small,' Carrie Underwood_

It was December the thirteenth when Troy heard a rather obscene yet familiar tune blasting from Arielle's bedroom, the frames on the walls shaking uncontrollably as the music rocked the loft. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, standing up and setting the _Entertainment Weekly_ down on the coffee table. "Why do I recognize that?" He pounded his fist on the door and waited for an answer, which didn't come. "Arielle!" he yelled over the music. "Turn that down!"

The slider door was pushed to his left, and there appeared Arielle, giving him an empty grin that made him cringe. "_What_ are you playing?" he asked, half-impatient and half-interested in hearing what it was that made him look back fifteen or so years. She pressed the 'pause' button on the remote to the iPod speakers, clearing her throat conventionally.

"It's called 'Music Is My Hot, Hot, Sex' by CSS," she informed him, finger combing a shock of daffodil-colored hair out of her eyes. She looked at him innocently, and he wondered if this had been what Gabriella had thought of him all those years ago, a living, breathing marvel with big innocent baby blues. "Today, there is exactly twelve days of Christmas left, so I'm having a loud and rowdy kickoff. Or a music fiesta, if you'd like more polite terms."

"'Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex,'" he repeated, and she nodded. Troy leaned toward her, his hand up in the doorway for a crutch. "Arielle Delaney, that is going off your iTunes _now_."

She pressed play and turned the volume up a little more, cracking the world in half, figuratively speaking. The girl cupped a hand around her ear and raised her brows. "What?" she yelled. He opened his mouth to speak and she interrupted, "I can't hear you!" The singer taunted, "_Music is my boyfriend, music is my girlfriend, music is my dead end._"

He glared and took the remote from her hands. The music stopped. "Arielle, why are you listening to music that _I_ listened to when I was a teenager?" he inquired, making a mental note to sweep through her playlists the next day.

"Because," she said matter-of-factly with a poker face plastered on her Shirley Temple cheeks, "maybe then I can at least get an idea of what it would be like around Gabriella."

The music played in their imaginations, "_Music is my hot, hot sex._"

**TYWY**

It was December the fourteenth when Troy heard what he remembered as the punky, eye-liner loving girl singing, "_Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend, no way, no way, I think you need a new one_." Now Arielle was simply tormenting him.

He pounded on her door again, and this time Harris opened, looking like he had been socked in the stomach once or twice. "Please," he begged, "make it stop, Dad."

"Arielle!" he called over the son's head, eyeing the blonde who was jumping on her bed, wearing red and green stockings and a black mini dress. All grown up, Troy thought sadly. "Arielle!"

She stopped and rolled her eyes. The music stopped. "Yeah, yeah, I know, turn it off. And no songs with swear words," she added when Avril Lavigne sang, "_And hell yeah, I'm the motherfuckin' princess._"

**TYWY**

It was December the fifteenth when Arielle arrived home from school with Harris, announcing her happiness that school was out for winter vacation. "I'll celebrate with some alternative," she said softly and sauntered toward her room. Troy tossed his keys onto the counter and counted down from ten. Nine, eight, seven…

"_Medically speaking you're adorable, and from what I hear you're quite affordable_," crooned the room's speakers. "_But I like them pricey. So exaggerate and tri-tri-tri-tri-tri-trick me_."

Harris fingered a scuffed baseball in his hand. "I'm going to send this through that wall," he muttered, "and hope it smacks her right on the head." Luckily for him, Troy used the sound as an excuse so not hear the comment.

"Arielle," he said firmly through the closed door, "I know you want to celebrate and everything, but please turn it down. Other people live here."

"So then kick me out!" she retaliated. "Not like you'd miss me much!"

He turned the knob and looked inside. She was sitting on the floor, playing what looked like a chess game with one of the many teddy bears she had collected a child. Really, though, she was just moving pawns back and forth. "Hey," Troy said, crouching down and brushing her hair out of her face. To his relief, her cheeks were dry. "Let's go out to eat. That way we can all make merry, okay?"

"Fine," Arielle grumbled. "But I don't want to go somewhere fancy."

As she shrugged on a jacket, Troy swallowed her in a hug. She pressed her forehead against his chest and he felt her grimace. "Agreed," he replied with a halfhearted smile.

Home Shopping Network was a last resort, and only that.

Gabriella did _not_ enjoy watching it.

However, it was often the only thing on that was worth her attention and the TiVo alert.

Home Shopping Network was a last resort. She thought it should be only that, yet somehow it turned out to be more during this we're-too-old-but-screw-the-age-normalcy sleepover.

"And here we have this lovely 14-karat…" began the stout woman on the screen, wearing a Christmas sweater vest and constantly stretching out her mouth with a yawn.

"How unprofessional," Adeline said with a laugh. She sat next to Gabriella on the sofa upstairs, sharing a popcorn bowl with the owner and giggling about the gaudy things offered. "She looks exactly like this mom from school. Same height, same hair, same damn Mrs. Claus squinty smile."

At this, Gabriella chuckled. She popped a kernel into her mouth and thought about the woman who had stopped by the other day, with her two boys. Adeline stared at her for a moment and then nudged her side. "Something on your mind?" she asked. A much taller, bonier lady with round red cheeks and beady eyes, holding a black velvet box, joined the woman on the screen. "Something—_romance-related?_"

Ever since Gabriella had distributed her tragic story into the universe for the woman with the sons, it seemed the rest of society decided they wanted in, too. "What?" she said, sitting up slightly and blinking. "No, why do you ask?"

Adeline smirked. "You look… evocative," she chose the word carefully. "Almost dreamy. Did you meet someone?" She smacked Gabriella's arm. "Ooh, who is it? Come on, Sampson is about ten square feet, I must know him."

"You don't know him," the shop owner responded tightly.

Adeline shifted; the popcorn bowl wobbled before she steadied it. "Oh, is he an out-of-towner?" Clearly, she wasn't catching on. "That sucks, G. They blow in here like tumbleweeds, and then they're out again before you know it. You guys didn't _do_ anything, did you? I mean, maybe a kiss or two but nothing like sex, right?"

"Oh, come on Sherlock, you honestly think I'd have met someone and then not tell you?" Gabriella said sourly. "I didn't meet anyone, I was just thinking about _someone_. It's an old someone, but I can remember almost everything about him, from his smile to his scent to his touch. Like it was yesterday." She snuggled beneath her baggy sweatshirt and grunted. "I hate being single."

This made Adeline smile slightly, although it didn't take brain science to sense Gabriella's bitterly wistful mood. "Tell me about it," she responded, offering up the popcorn again. "It's a pain in the ass but that's where friends come in."

**TYWY**

"I love this place," Arielle gasped as soon as the three Boltons walked into the Hop Kee Restaurant in Chinatown. Troy had been driving around aimlessly for a running sixty minutes, trying to come up with a non-fancy yet still _sanitary_ dining establishment. He finally called Greta, his gallery agent, and asked where she liked to go. "Hop Kee," she had said simply. Troy thanked her and drove in that direction.

Now, they were seated in the almost empty eatery, and the father hesitantly asked the waiter where everyone was. The employee shrugged as he put their menus down. "Ah, holiday season. Lots of people on vacation, very little business, you know? You folks want some dumplings?"

"Yes, please!" Arielle said earnestly. The waiter smiled and she turned to her father, beaming. "Oh, Daddy, this place is wonderful! Let's go here again, I'm already loving the atmosphere!" A busboy waded near their table, scrubbing another; the hostess was making a phone call, confirming a party of eleven people; their waiter, who seemed to be the only server at the time, was picking at a stain on his shirt. Troy squirmed.

There was a long, awkward pause before Arielle said she needed to use the rest room. "I'll find it," she reassured her brother and father, the former faking interest. "No need to be _snarky_." He waved.

As soon as she left, Harris turned to Troy. "Boy, do you look uncomfortable," the black-haired teen said with a leer. The man narrowed his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well, to start the list, Dad, you're used to Cassandra deciding where to eat all the time. So that's why you called Greta to get a second opinion," Harris said, counting on his fingers, "And whenever you're eating with Cassandra, you guys are somewhere expensive and rich and well-lit and with food that you've never even heard of. Thirdly, you're sitting up straight and your elbows aren't on the table. You're _completely_ uncomfortable."

Troy would have protested had Arielle not returned from the bathroom. However, it wasn't like he had much of an argument anyway. Harris did have a point. Hop Kee, although laidback and not at all unfriendly like many places he'd been, wasn't what he was adjusted to. "The bathroom doesn't have soap bars!" Arielle exclaimed. "Just a dispenser with pink goo! That's so _cool!_"

**TYWY**

There was a little jingle from downstairs, and Gabriella knew there was a customer. "Damn," she mumbled, "I was so looking forward to seeing what the caller wanted to know about the jeweled headbands." Adeline snickered and set the popcorn bowl on the coffee table, waiting for her telebuddy to return after helping the shopper.

"Good evening," Gabriella said gently as she came down the stairs. A man stood, and she realized it was Jude. "Oh, hi there." She felt her face flush. She had forgotten he had wanted to stop by in search of a Christmas present for his niece. Now, though, Adeline was still over.

"You feel all right?" he asked with a smile. "You look like you've just seen a ghost." Or fallen off a cliff, she thought sickly.

"I'm fine," Gabriella replied, running a hand through her hair. "I just—I actually have company over."

He raised an eyebrow. "Male company?"

"Why does _everyone_ assume I suddenly have a boyfriend?" She folded her arms over her chest in a subconscious way.

Jude flashed a grin. "It's hard to believe you're single, Gabriella," he said in the blandest tone he could muster, "with all that pizzazz and charm of yours."

She came up to him to flick his shoulder, and he faked pain. "It's just a friend," she corrected him, before a light bulb brightened above her head. "In fact, you should meet her. Her name is Adeline, she's a teacher, long red hair and freckles and—"

"Gabriella Montez, are you trying to set me up on a blind date?" Adeline appeared behind her, arms crossed and a smirk conquering her lips. Extending a hand, she nodded at Jude. "Call me Addie."

"Nice to meet you," he said, his eyes bright. Gabriella stepped out from between them and closed her eyes. Now if only someone would do this for her.

**TYWY**

"Fortune cookie?" the hostess suggested, presenting a tray with three chocolate-covered fortune cookies on their individual saucers.

"Thanks," Harris said appreciatively, reaching across his sister to take a dessert. Arielle followed suit, and the hostess turned finally to Troy. She held the tray forward and he raised his hand gingerly, wondering what it was that made him so hesitant about reading a fortune that probably wouldn't even come true. Finally, he took one of the treats and rubbed his thumb along the sweet, smoothed chocolate, wondering what message lay inside.

The three cracked open their pastries simultaneously, and Arielle read her fortune aloud first. "A fascinating project is in your future," she announced, and folded the message before pocketing it simply.

Harris went next. He scanned it first, and then groaned. "Ugh, it's one of those that's just a _saying_, not a fortune." Arielle elbowed him and he continued, "'Chocolate is a tangible expression of friendship.'" He frowned. "I didn't pay for an expensive noodle-and-pork dinner for _that_."

Glancing down at his own fate, Troy sighed nonchalantly, "That's right, _I_ did." He felt his eyebrows knit together as he read the crimson/ print, and then the numbers beneath. 14 among them. Fourteen, he thought. My number

"Daddy, what is your fortune?" Arielle asked with a curiosity he loathed. Harris leaned forward slightly over the placemats on the table which had the twelve Chinese horoscopes. He looked to Arielle; she was Year of the Rabbit. _Articulate, talented, and ambitious. Virtuous, reserved, excellent taste_. He smiled slightly, and then looked at Year of the Horse: her father. _Popular. Cheerful, perceptive, sometimes talk too much. Wise, talented, impatient, hot-blooded. Rarely listens to advice given. Weakness for the opposite sex._. The boy snorted. Yep, that was Troy. "Daddy?" Arielle repeated, looking from her brother to her father and back again. "What does your fortune say?"

'A mysterious person will soon enter your life. 02 06 11 14 29 31.' He crumpled the paper, suddenly feeling his fingertips singe with fear. "Nothing important," he said dismissively. Arielle shrank back against her chair and waited for the waiter to give them the check.

**TYWY**

So it wasn't a fortune cookie, but Gabriella was also finding out about her predetermined future via Yahoo! after Adeline and Jude, engrossed with one another, left the shop together later that night. "'More than almost anyone else, you know that things change. Sometimes they change back to what they used to be, but nothing stays the same forever—and some part of your life is moving on today,'" she mused, caressing the computer mouse subconsciously with her thumb. "Maybe."

**TYWY**

"You're popular, and you talk too much, and you have a weakness for the opposite sex," Arielle announced when they reached the apartment building, the warm air inside heating their frozen bodies when they got to their particular dorm. Harris moved onto the living room immediately, quiet and uninterested, while the father paused and blinked, turning to his daughter.

"Excuse me?" he asked sternly, giving her a rephrase-now expression.

"No, no, no," she corrected him, "that's what the Chinese New Year calendar says about you. You're Year of the Horse, which is popular and cheerful but also talkative and I guess you get weak-kneed around girls." Folding her arms, she grinned and nodded. "I looked at the placemat. It says so."

"Oh, really?" he said, ruffling her hair slightly to give her that childish feeling once more. "Well, you, Arielle Delaney, are Year of the Rabbit. What does it say about you?"

She smiled a lofty smile. "That I'm articulate, talented, and have good taste," she said airily. "I don't blame them, it's the truth."

Troy leaned down to kiss her head and half-hug her. "Yes," he murmured tenderly, "It is." Then he remembered Gabriella, also Year of the Horse. Had Mrs. Bolton given birth just a month earlier, even two weeks, he would have been a Snake. _Says very little, possess great wisdom, tremendous sympathy for others_. But no, he was talkative and impatient and hot-blooded. Gabriella was just as loquacious if not a great deal more; she wanted many things to be done all at once; she had a temper. So while Troy could opt for being a December baby, instead of a January, he still felt a slightly special connection to the girl he once loved, who too was chatty and restless and fervent. It made him feel a little less sick about the gaping void that was the thirteen years she had spent MIA.

Missing in all this action.


	6. Road Trip

A/N: Happy New Year's Eve Eve! This is the last update for a while, until the seventh at least, when I return to school. I'm curious to know how people are feeling about this story, it's a little slow, I understand, but these chapters are really here to establish personalities and circumstances. Let's get to that review button. :) -love- Desireé

Chapter Six, Road Trip

_My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundations,_

_and I know that I should let go but I can't._

_And every time we fight I know it's not right, every time that you're upset and I smile,_

_I know I should forget, but I can't._

_-'Foundations,' Kate Nash_

The next day, Arielle and Harris were stirring their runny scrambled eggs mindlessly while Troy tried to salvage some black hash browns. "Well, there's a week until Christmas," he mumbled, turning off the stove fire for a moment, "and Cassandra won't be back until the twenty-second. We didn't plan a trip this year—where do you guys want to go?" He looked up at the two of them.

Arielle learned forward, tapping her wrist anxiously as she smiled at her father. "Actually," she told him, her hair falling in front of her face as she swung her head side to side. "I talked to Aunt April last night, she agreed _we_—meaning Harris and I—could come up for a while, maybe a couple days or something. She and Peter just redid the guest room, so we're all set."

"Um, when we you going to tell me this?" Harris asked acerbically, bumping her thigh with his knee. She shot him a look before clearing her throat.

"Well, I thought I would talk to Dad about it before I got your hopes up and all," she explained, eyeing her father, "although I don't see why there would be any problem for him if we went to April's."

Troy blinked. "Huh. You know, guys, I know it's difficult to grasp the fact that adults actually _have_ emotion, but you do realize that your dear old dad will be all by himself if you two go to April's for the week?" he asked, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly.

The girl sighed. "Dad, you're _always_ painting. And besides, there's plenty you can do without us around to bug you," she told him. Her eyes lit up suddenly and she continued, "Why don't you get back in touch with your high school self? You know who we haven't seen in _forever?_ Chad and Taylor! Remember? Your, like, best friend and his wife? They were so nice when we were little! Don't you miss them terribly?"

The pan griddle shrieked; Troy shifted uncomfortably, gripping its handle. He wondered about the faithful companion and the intelligent mathlete. It had been years since they had spoken. "Uh," he began, changing the subject, "I like this idea better: what if I go with you to April's?"

"_No!_" Arielle cried, biting the inside of her cheek when she saw the looks of surprise on her father's and brother's faces. "I mean, come on, Dad, that defeats the purpose of us going there. April might as well just come over here then, but she probably doesn't want to drive…" Her voice faded as Harris glanced at her. "What?"

"Look, I get it," Troy said dejectedly, although he was attempting to hide his disappointment with a yawn, "You don't want me to come, and that's fine. Cassandra keeps telling me this is the age where you guys begin to branch out, so I can accept that, despite the fact that six days will be a long time without my two favorite people around." They each secretly rolled their eyes, and even if he couldn't see this, Troy was smart enough to sense their attitude.

"Daddy, it's not that we don't want you to come," Arielle persuaded, "it's just that we'd like some alone time with April. And we'll be back on Christmas Eve, simple as that. I'm telling you, it'll be a great time for you to still hang out with Chad and Taylor." He glanced at her again and she shrugged with a Shirley Temple smile on her face.

**TYWY**

After breakfast, Arielle didn't take the time to slack off, but instead launched right into packing clothes for the train ride to Boston. She was sifting through her desk, while the Dropkick Murphys song 'I'm Shipping Up to Boston' played an appropriate jingle. She rummaged through the closet, clutching papers to her chest when Harris walked in, calling her name, and she shrieked, jumping up and dropping everything to the floor. "Crap, you scared me," she said nervously, sweeping up the papers briskly. He bent down to pick one up that had landed near his feet.

"What's this?" he asked, staring at the words written in Arielle's print. He read aloud, "'Dear Gabriella.'" Harris paused. "_Is this a letter?_"

She snatched the paper from out of his hands and glared at him sharply. "Not that it's any of your business," she snipped, "but yes, it is." Arielle looked at the date. "I wrote this one last year, on my birthday. I asked her what she felt like after I was born, and if she remembered my birthday even all this time later. I asked her what she wanted to get me, and then I wrote that she didn't have to get me anything, so long as she came back, I would be happy."

He looked saddened. "Arielle, you know she probably has a new family of her own, maybe a big business or a thriving career," he let on tenderly. "It's a harsh thought, but it might be true."

"I know," she said softly, "but it's nice to dream, I guess." Kneeling over the suitcase, Arielle gently tucked the letters into a pocket and then reached for the Polaroid, kissing it gently before putting it with the papers.

"Why are you taking those?" he inquired, leaning against the wall.

She stood up and her face darkened. "This is for your ears and your ears only," the girl declared firmly, and he flashed his palms in a sign of surrender. "I swear, if Dad or Cassandra finds out what I'm going to do, they'll skin me alive and hang my hide on the wall." She shivered. "Cassandra is just like that. Anyway, Harris, you must _promise_—"

"I _promise_," he said solemnly.

"Oh," Arielle said, surprised there was no more convincing to be done. "Well then, listen good and listen well because I do not intend on repeating myself." She braced herself before saying, "I'm going to get April to help us find Gabriella."

His eyes widened. "Um, _what?_"

"No snitching," she said sharply, "but I think she has an idea of where she is, or at least where she went. And then she can take her to us, so we'll have the family again before Christmas! It'll be like an early present, a—"

"Arielle," Harris interrupted. "What on earth do you think you can do to bring this memory back to life? Gabriella could be _dead_ for all we know, and—"

"Don't say that!" she squealed, horrified.

"—you seem to be determined she's, like, just around the corner." He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. "Ari, can't we _please_ just enjoy our time with April? I mean, we rarely see her, and if you even attempt this plan, our one enjoyable vacation will be ruined. Not to mention I doubt she has any idea where Gabriella is. I'm sure Dad would know if April did."

The girl made a face at her brother. "Oh, come on, Harris. You think I haven't carefully planned this out?" she asked. "April must know something, and even if she doesn't, she has to have more of a will to find Gabriella than Dad does. Ever since that day with Taylor and Chad, I can't stop thinking about her. She's around here, Harris, she has to be. She couldn't have gone far—"

He swallowed painfully. "In the last thirteen years? I think she could have, A, I really do, and she probably did."

_At Grand Central Station, Troy notices the indifference between his two children._

This was the first goodbye Troy had said to Arielle and Harris in a very long time without knowing they would be back the next day. "Call me as soon as you get off the train, okay?" he told them as they slowly departed. "April will be there to greet you, look for her, she's still got blue hair, I think, so there shouldn't be a problem finding her."

"Okay, Dad," said Arielle after every sentence, nodding promptly and a little hurriedly. "We're two teenagers, smart and well-equipped with cell phones and I can always scream like a banshee if some jackass tries to attack me. Can we go now?"

"Cut back on the language, can we?" Troy tried, coming to hug her. He would miss them, even if something told him they wouldn't really miss him.

"There's much worse than 'jackass' in the English language, Dad," she said, wrapping her arms around him with a smile. "Like shit, or bitch, or f—"

"Got it," Troy cut in, and he brushed her bangs aside, grinning. Arielle smiled cheekily and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as Harris elbowed her before hugging his father. The man stood back a moment to examine them, and he nodded. "Call me in an hour, so I know you made it on the train safe and sound. Okay?"

They each agreed and patted their bags at separate times, Arielle waving and Harris half-smiling. As the children made their way toward the farther end of the station, Troy added hesitantly, "I love you both!"

"We love you, too!" Arielle shouted over her shoulder, seeing her brother's hangdog face. "Harris does love you, he just thinks that you can't say that to your dad at fifteen years old." People around them smirked and the boy shoved his sister slightly, while their father laughed.

"You're so embarrassing," Harris sneered weakly when they disappeared from the artist's sight. She grinned and slung her arm around him drunkenly. "But I put up with you, for some reason."

"We're okay then?" she inquired uneasily.

"About what?"

"You weren't exactly pleased to hear about my plan to get April to help us," she clarified coldly. "Even though _you_ yourself have made no contribution to finding Gabriella."

He shrugged and she let her arm down from his shoulders. "I know," sighed Harris, "but I know finding out about Gabriella is important to you so I won't interfere this time. Just don't make me get into it, all right?"

Arielle took a seat on a comfy brown chair and fingered a split end in her hair. "Yeah," she murmured. "I just hope this is a good vacation, regardless of what happens with Gabriella. We haven't gotten a break in a long time."

"I know," he replied. "I hope so, too."

**TYWY**

Reality could give you pretty rude awakenings, so rude that you feel a sting on your cheek and a nail beneath your foot and a rock in your shoe—all at once. Discomfort smothers you and for too long a time you feel like you're about to die, taking your last little breath. Gabriella was half-dead on the floor as she clutched the local paper in her hands. There, on the cover of _The Sampson Chronicles_, was a picture of a much older-looking, still _good_-looking Troy Bolton, smiling at whoever was to the left of the camera. 'Bound for Praise' read the title. "Praise of _what,_ exactly?" she jeered at no one.

The story was not more than four paragraphs, a simple recognition to the gallery exhibit opening in the Upper East Side. It spoke of his inspiration, his ideas, and his… family. She swallowed a large pill at the sight of the name 'Cassandra' and suddenly hated herself for being jealous. "You left," she reminded herself, "_You_ left him. He moved on. Get over it."

"Get over what?" inquired Adeline as she came into the shop, smiling cheerfully. "Oh, did you see that story about the new Apple store in the paper today? I've wanted an iPod for so long, and now I finally can get one without having to drive out to Jersey City. I dropped my shuffle in the bathtub last month, so…" She paused and stared at Gabriella, as if it was only then that she realized she was on the floor. "You okay, Gabi? You look, um, _disturbed_."

"I am such an old hag!" sobbed the shop owner, crushing the paper into a ball the size of a loaf of bread and throwing it across the room. "I am thirty-four freaking years old and I am alone, and half-way dead, and this little town that literally has, like, twenty people in population calls me the _Black Sheep_." She sat up and pouted, "I might as well be out there feeding _pigeons!_"

For a moment, Adeline balanced on her feet awkwardly, not sure what to do. Gabriella continued in a blustery voice, "I had it all at one point. A good job, a good boyfriend, a good family, a good home. And now I have this—this—this _dump_." Her sentence ended in a screechy halt, as she realized Adeline was sitting beside her, posture terrible just like Gabriella's.

"It's not a dump, per say," Adeline said gently, "I think it just needs some tender loving care. And maybe a new name. I liked it at one point, but now 'The Witching Hour' just sounds like some late-late special on QVC." This forced a bitter giggle out of the shop owner. Her friend hesitated, before asking, "Why did you come to Sampson, though? What was your life before this?"

Gabriella rotated her shoulders slightly, trying to work out the many knots that had collected over the years. She paced herself for a moment, her hands steepled and her lips softened, concealing blank sentences. "I had everything. And now I have nothing."

Not for long, Ms. Montez.

_And every time we fight I know it's not right, every time that you're upset and I smile,_

_I know I should forget, but I can't._


	7. Thinking

A/N: Sorry this is later than I said it would be. I've been sick for the last few days with the stomach flu and I didn't manage to update at all. :(

Okay, originally this part, to some degree, was rushed through with Arielle and Harris getting to Sampson, but after AmericanDesi asked for some of the adults' insight (thank you, by the way!), I decided to redo the seventh chapter and make its predecessor push to the eighth chapter. That's a little confusing, but it's just a mere report for now. Thanks guys! -love- Desireé

Chapter Seven, Thinking

_So give me something to believe_

'_Cause I am living just to breathe_

_And I need something more_

_To keep on breathing for_

_So give me something to believe_

_-'Believe,' The Bravery_

Gabriella was in the kitchen, stirring a bowl full of muffin batter, ignoring the cramp in her hand as she dragged the whisk through the mix. Adeline stood next to her, occasionally dipping her finger into the bowl and taking a helping of—in Gabriella's words—salmonella. "Lighten up," her friend insisted. She paused for a second. "You look so tired, G. Why don't you just take a break maybe? I'll book you a weekend at a spa or something. You definitely need it."

"Wow, thanks," Gabriella replied, making a face. Adeline shook her head.

"You can mock me all you want, but regardless, you are only thirty-four and you look so, _so_ exhausted." She sighed and glanced at the clock, as if conscious of the time because people in Sampson always had full agendas. "Gabi, it seems like you've been through so much. Why don't you find yourself a man that will take care of you? Someone good and sweet and, hopefully, attractive. Find happiness in a guy who finds it in you."

"Okay, _rewind_," Gabriella retaliated, her eyes closed and her mouth straight. "This conversation cannot have any real point." She was quiet for a moment before saying, "I have good friends in this little sanctuary of a town. My time to find happiness in a guy has long expired." She returned to her muffin batter and Adeline dipped two fingers in this time.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the whir of the old gas oven, slowly preheating to four-fifty. Finally, the redhead teacher said softly, "You know, your boyfriend all those years ago, whoever he was, I bet he really misses you, Gabriella. I bet he really hates the day that you left because that's the day his life ended."

As did mine, Gabriella thought. Maybe she looked tired, maybe she _was_ tired, but not one person came to mind when she reflected on who could possibly tender some slumbering salvation. The woman offered a smile to Adeline, appreciative that she had found this friend in a person not much unlike herself. Still, she wondered to herself what Troy was doing at that very moment, and if he was thinking about her just like she was of him.

**TYWY**

April Bolton was thirty-five years young, although the only hint to this was her wedding ring that had been on her finger for several anniversaries. She was tall, curvy, and inexplicably charming; more so, she was the somewhat older, only slightly taller, female version of her brother Troy. That and her hair was still blue much to the dismay of her parents who had assumed it was just a phase the day she arrived back from boarding school with sapphire tresses. She stood out among the rest of the crowd at the station, waiting pleasantly for her niece and nephew. "Oh my gosh," she cried when they reached her, luggage waiting at the No. 4 carousel nearby. "You're both so big! When did you get so grown up? Arielle, you look exactly like your father. And Harris, you—" What? Look exactly like the woman who left you for a lesser life two hundred miles away? Oh, yeah. Her.

"It's okay," he mumbled sheepishly, his feet shuffling slightly. April smiled sadly and gave him a hug, before jangling her keys in her hand and nodding outside.

"You guys hungry? There's a McDonald's around the corner," she said, clicking the unlock button directed toward a silver Prius.

"You have a _hybrid?_" Arielle asked incredulously, forgetting about the marvel that was fast food (Cassandra always had them get a personal chef if they weren't eating at a five-star place). "A fuel-efficient car? Oh my God, that's so cool!"

Their aunt raised her eyebrows and laughed. "Yeah, it was a birthday present from your dad. You guys were little when he got it for me. It's been good, though. By some way of luck it's lasted all these years," she said fondly. Their stares amused her. "What, have you guys never seen one? This is the mother of all hybrids, the first of all of them. Does Troy still have the Range Rover?"

Climbing carefully into the backseat, Arielle nodded moodily. "Yes," she answered, "He got a new one last year around Thanksgiving. I keep begging him to get a friendlier car, but he keeps saying he likes the Rover for some reason." April pursed her lips as she slid her seat belt over her torso. He used to drive her around, she thought. Probably got it with her in mind.

The golden arch caught her eye and she smiled lightly. "You guys up for some good old artery clogging?" she asked, turning into the drive-thru. "I don't really feel like cooking and their apple pies are good."

Harris glanced nervously at the menu. "We won't die of…" He trailed off. "We won't die?"

"By eating at McDonald's?" April laughed and shook her head. "Hey, it's not the Ritz or anything but once in a while is okay." She turned to the voice box and yelled out a couple of numbers and details including sauces et cetera. The cashier recited a price and the blue-haired woman grinned at the two muted teenagers. "When's the last time you've eaten fast food?"

"Uh, try _never_," Arielle snorted. "Cassandra insists we remain completely natural and organic." She rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. "Aunt April?" She caught the woman's eye in the rear view mirror. The girl shifted awkwardly for a moment. "Did you and Cassandra ever… get along?" she finally asked.

As if. "Oh," April replied, clearing her throat conventionally. "Well, she and I never really saw eye to eye, but that doesn't mean we didn't get along. It's just—she's got a different idea about life than I do, which is perfectly _fine_, everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, however a long time ago we both agreed that it wasn't as simple as that—" here she snapped her fingers "—to become friends, and it would be better if we steered clear of one another."

"Is that why _we_ always visit _you_?" Harris asked curiously. "And not the other way around? Because of Cassandra?"

Handing the cashier a twenty, April took one breath and turned back to them, not sure what to say that wouldn't undoubtedly upset Troy. "Well, there's something about New York that just unnerves me," she said lamely, "So I always like it better when you guys come up to Boston. Besides, I'm a Red Sox fan. I can't be walking around Yankee town." She patted her nephew's arm with a weak smile, wondering if they were thinking about Gabriella just as often as she knew her brother did.

**TYWY**

There were three people in Troy's life that he hadn't expected to call at all the moment he got home from the train station. The phone's tone (something fruity-sounding with a name like 'Fiesta' or 'Conga Line') filled the loft and he rummaged around the living room for the mobile. "Damn it," he cursed as he tripped over an old pair of Arielle's sneakers just in time to grab the cordless. "Hello?" He sounded winded.

"Honey!" Cassandra's voice shattered the peace that had drifted through the loft. "I'm so glad you picked up. How is everything?"

He glanced around the empty apartment. _Lonely_ inched through his mind. "Great. I just dropped Arielle and Harris off at Grand Central; they're staying with April for a little while. Until you get back," he added quickly when he remembered the indifference between his wife and sister.

"Oh." Her voice went grim and he closed his eyes, trying to imagine what her face looked like at the moment. "Well, I miss you a lot. Mommy and Daddy are _pleasant_ company, but they seem rather above the entire modeling business." She scoffed wholeheartedly. "I just miss your support."

Troy's weight shifted from one foot to the other as he leaned against the kitchen countertop. "Yeah," was all he could manage for a moment. Finally he cleared her throat and asked, "How's the… resort? Good service?"

She twittered and he held the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Oh, it's a _lovely_ spa center, Troy," Cassandra gushed. "I just got a facial this morning, my skin feels like porcelain!" She droned in a low, sultry voice, "Perfect for when I return."

Maybe ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago, Troy would have liked the hear this. His boyish, goofy self would have been completely turned on by this subtle promise from a world famous supermodel, but now, he didn't really care. "Oh, God," he mumbled. "I'm old."

On the other end of the line, Cassandra asked with a concerned voice, "What was that?"

"Nothing," Troy said quickly. He rubbed his face and hummed a pointless tune for a moment. "Listen, uh, can I call you back later? I think I—I think I have to call Greta about the New Year's showing." One tiny little fib couldn't hurt anyone, right?

"Sure, honey bear!" she giggled. He felt himself cringe. "Go do your thing, keep bringing home the bacon, just be happy!" A burst of laughter erupted around her and she said, "Oh! I should go, too! I love you! Call me, okay? I'll be back before you know it, but don't be a stranger all this time."

Relieved the conversation had ended, Troy put the phone down back on the kitchen's island just as it rang again. It was an Albuquerque area code. For some reason, he desperately wanted it to be Gabriella. He wanted her to be calling, crying and begging for him to come get her. But it wasn't her, of course it wasn't. Jack Bolton was on the phone, confused as to why his only son didn't recognize the number. "Troy?" he said, voice deep.

"Oh, hey, Dad," the younger Bolton said. "How's it going?"

"Oh, fine. Actually, I just wanted to know if you and Cass and the kids were coming down here for Christmas," Jack explained. "Your mother's planning on making turkey."

Troy stared for a moment. He stared, essentially, at nothing, yet somehow he lost his train of thought and his father had to repeat himself. "What? Oh, right. Listen, about that. Um, Cassandra wanted to have Christmas here since we already flew down there for Thanksgiving. How about we come for… Martin Luther King Jr. Day? Or better yet, we'll fly you out here. Yeah, and that way April can be with us, too."

"I thought she and Cass hated each other," a voice piped up from the background. It was Lillian Bolton. Troy realized he was on speakerphone.

"They don't _hate_ each other, Mom," he said shortly. "They just—Arielle and Harris and I make separate visits to April's house just for the sake of stability within the family." For some reason, the memory of Gabriella leaving and the turmoil afterward made Troy laugh at his own statement.

Both slightly startled, Jack and Lillian exchanged glances, each wondering about their son's peculiar behavior. "Well, why don't you come out for New Year's? Celebrate 2025 in your hometown."

"Yeah, I don't know, I'll call you guys later," Troy said, still chuckling. Why was he doing this? Why the hell did he find his ex girlfriend's official departure thirteen years prior funny? "Cassandra and I will talk. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad." And with that, he hung up, cackling as if the world itself was the most hysterical thing he'd ever seen.

And then the laughter died, as easily as it had come. He waited, maybe for more hilarity to ensue, when the phone rang again. Straight-faced, he furrowed an eyebrow at the Caller ID. "Hello?" he answered.

There were familiar whispers for a moment. "It's him!" "You talk to him!" "Why not you?" "_You're his best friend, idiot_." "Well, shit, a long time ago, yeah." "What's so different now?" "Well—"

"Um, hello?" he said again, reflecting on who could possibly be calling. Best friend… Best friend… Who was his best friend?

"Troy!" the caller finally said, giving off a nervous laugh. "It's Chad… Danforth. Up in Westchester. And Taylor, too, she's here. Um, hi there." The line slowly faded and Troy cleared his throat. How could he have forgotten about Chad?

"You there, man?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. Homesickness was seeping through him all of the sudden, painful and slow.

"Yes!" Taylor squeaked. She hemmed timidly and mumbled something to Chad. "How is New York?" she inquired genuinely, turning her attention back to Troy.

"Uh, it's good. Cold right now, but I'm sure Westchester is, too," he replied, drumming his fingers against his stomach. "So… What's new with you guys?" He silently hoped their chat wouldn't be limited to small talk. A steady fourteen years of school together couldn't go to waste.

There was a silence. "I have to go," Taylor said suddenly. She cleared her throat and added, "Keep talking, it's been nearly five years and you guys have a lot to catch up." There was a moment where the phone clicked before Chad coughed.

"Hey," he muttered, his voice low.

Troy squinted at the cupboards across from him and smiled. "Hey. Everything okay? I got your… Thanksgiving card. Last month. It's the only turkey card on the entire mantle. You guys are special."

Chad laughed. "Oh, yeah. Taylor got one of those deluxe every-holiday-you-could-think-of Hallmark card boxes and now she's been writing greeting cards left and right. My parents got a Thanksgiving one, too, and so did Jason and Kelsi. They live in D.C. now. You catch up with any of the other East High people much?" He was thinking of Gabriella in particular, even if he knew very well Troy had no desire to think of his first—and perhaps only—love.

"Oh, actually, not really. I think Cassandra talks to Sharpay a lot, you know, with her being a designer and everything," the father responded, opening and closing the fridge door, hearing the faint _chunk_ every time he pulled or pushed the handle. "But, uh, other than that, I don't. I should though. I should call everyone up just to see how things are going. Keep in touch, you know."

Yeah, we all know, thought Chad. "How are things w-with you?" he asked, stammering. "I mean, it's been a while since we've seen the kids, because, you know… We live out far, far, f-far away in Westchester. So we couldn't visit or anything. Unexpectedly, I mean. If you invited us, that would be fine, but, um, no we couldn't, like just randomly pop in and just… come back into your life."

"Jesus, Chad, you ramble like the world's ending." Evidently, Taylor Danforth didn't really have to go, but then again, who did?

_Her laugh was to his ears like was chocolate was to the tongue, what lotion was to the skin. Purely magic. "You are ridiculous!" she trilled, collapsing into his arms with careful minding of the baby. He kissed her neck and she squirmed pleasantly, tapping his cheek. "Stop it, I hate being tickled!"_

_"Oh, but that means you love it," he countered, laying his lips on hers. She moaned against his mouth before finally pulling away, her hands pressed to his shoulders for leverage._

_"You promised," she pouted. He sighed, knowing the guilt look she had lately used whenever she pleased would come next. "You said we'd get home and pick a name once and for all before I drove myself crazy interrogating random tagged employees at Vons about the origins of _their_ names." She stuck out her lower lip and he rolled his eyes playfully. Bingo._

_"Fine, fine. But let's just hurry up, okay? It's not fair to have this incredibly hot girlfriend with me all day long and not be able to kiss her," he said indignantly as she reached for the newly purchased baby book._

_"Funny how you say that because you're the biggest kiss-ass I've met in a while," she teased and he grimaced. Combing his hair with her fingers, she smiled. "But still, it's nice to be called 'hot' when you feel like a balloon."_

_His arms slid around her as she opened to the first page, which began with A names. "Ashton," she read aloud, choosing ones she at least didn't mind. "Austin, Aaron, Adam." Suddenly, she froze as he grinned. "What?"_

_"You're reading boy names," he pointed out. "You said you wanted to be surprised."_

_Flags of color rose across her face and she turned away. "Well, I was just starting with boy names," she said, "and then I'll get to girls. See? Arielle, Anna, Alicia, Allison, Amy. Oh, look, April, like your… sister. Why are you looking at me like that?"_

_He smirked. "You know it's a boy, don't you?"_

_She blushed again. "No, I don't—"_

_"You called the doctor's office, didn't you?" When she didn't reply, he grinned triumphantly. "You did! Oh, Brie, that's actually awesome. I kind of was hoping for a boy. If we're gonna have a girl, I wanted one later… So she could be the baby of the family and I could spoil her rotten."_

_This made the girl beam. She finally gave in and smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. "We'll have another boy after this, then," she resolved, "and then a girl. You can pamper her all you like, but for right now we have to think about our first child. We can't leave him Untitled."_

_His face brightened. "That would be kind of cool—"_

_"No, absolutely not," she interrupted. He laughed._

_"I was kidding, Brie. Cool it, will you? I don't think frown lines are good for the baby." The girl pushed his chest feebly and he kissed her again. "Now, let's get down to business."_

_Not until seven fifty-six that evening, which meant the young couple had spent a good four and a half hours deciding what to name their unborn child, had they come up with anything. He lay on the floor, facing the ceiling with a restless expression. "I spent ten dollars on that stupid book, which got us absolutely nowhere. Let's just name him Buckwheat," he said decrepitly, "or Hal or Gus. Something simple and interesting."_

_"Um, I'm sorry, _Buckwheat_?" She shot him a look and he flashed her a smile. Her heart melted. "Our child will be tossed into dumpsters and shoved headfirst into toilets and hung up on coat racks by his underwear if we name him that. We are not naming him Buckwheat."_

_He shrugged innocently. "Fine then. But we are definitely not naming him something boring like Michael or Eric or Will." The nineteen-year-old sat up. "I mean, there's got to be a thousand of those just within a ten block radius. We have to get the kid to stand out, since—" Off in the bedroom, his phone rang, playing a Beatles tune he had recorded from their iTunes. A groan slipped from his lips. "It better not be my parents."_

_"It will be," she replied dotingly, flipping through the book for what seemed like the billionth time, even when he insisted it wouldn't help. The boy rose and carried into the other room; the ringing stopped when he answered. The girl counted down from twenty as he spoke in short, hasty words before he finally trudged back to the couch. She smiled like the Cheshire cat. "I was right."_

_"Of course you were," he sighed, holding his hand up to observe his mobile. Suddenly he gasped and looked up at his girlfriend. "Let's name him after one of the Beatles!"_

_She glanced up at him, closing the book over her expanding stomach. "Paul, John, and George are all very average names, Troy. And we're not naming him Ringo."_

_He looked disheartened for a moment before his eyes brightened again and he said, "Well, what about the last names? Starr's cool, and so is Lennon. We could name him McCartney! How many guys do we know named McCartney?"_

_The girl stood up, pressing a hand to her back softly before standing in front of him. She took a breath, preparing for a long spiel of words. "Starr Bolton? That sounds like a female stripper. Lennon Bolton? Dear Lord, that sounds like a drink my mother would order. And holy crap, honey, McCartney Bolton? He'll be getting wedgies like some kids get growing pains."_

_Every dream shot down in ten seconds flat, the boy nearly gave up, before he leaned toward her, forehead against forehead, and grinned. "Harrison. What about Harrison?" he asked. "Harris for short."_

_She paused reflectively, her nose bumping his as she rocked back and forth on her feet. "Harris," she mused. "I like it. Harris Bolton. Not exactly Brad Pitt or Matt Damon, but I like it."_

It hadn't occurred to Troy that he had been crying until Chad spoke. "Um, you all right, dude? Look, we've been meaning to call for a while now; Taylor keeps insisting we get together, but time just keeps running out. Have you, uh, gone Christmas shopping or anything?"

"No," the former hotshot replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He hadn't thought about Gabriella for the longest time, at least not like that. And now his face was wet, streaked with tears he hadn't known existed, proving that the strangest things could work out as easily as anything. You've seen a movie a million times, you know exactly when the character's death will happen or some news will spill, and even if you prepare yourself, you still sob so hard you can't breathe.

Funny how life caught up with you when you least expected it.

"I haven't," Troy continued, shuddering slightly at the chill that shocked him for a moment. "But, uh, the kids are with April right now and Cassandra's in like St. Bart's or something with her parents. I'm on my own for the next few days."

"Do you miss her?" Taylor suddenly blurted out. She paused and cleared her throat. "Uh, what I'm asking is does Gabriella ever—ever come up between you and Arielle and Harris?"

It hurt to hear her name. Troy flinched and slid down the wall, easing himself onto the cool tile floor. He hesitated, wondering if this question had a follow-up. "No," the man finally said, leaning on his elbow. "I mean the topic has come up before. But not recently—" He stopped. The few weeks back, when Arielle had called them on their trip in Vermont. She wanted to know about her. He decided to let this piece of information slide.

"Do you miss her?" The question came up again, but this time from Chad. He sighed when Taylor let out a whisper of dry air. "It's not like you haven't been wanting to ask him forever, Tay. I just stepped up to the plate first."

The former Golden Boy, who had unknowingly become a single father before his very eyes within the span of twenty-one years, felt tears burn his eyes again. He inhaled sharply before groaning. "I haven't talked about her," he said quietly, "in almost ten years."

_The Danforths were good people and Chad had insisted he and Taylor drive out to meet Troy after Gabriella left. "He needs something to lean on," the curly-haired young man said to his girlfriend at the time, "since now he's got a shitload of responsibility for a whole lot of nothing coming from _her_." His eyes darkened and Taylor pressed her palm to his cheek._

_"You know she probably couldn't stick around much longer, anyway," she said sensitively, "And you can be a loyal best friend all you want but it won't make her any less gone. Now, let's get going. He probably has limited time since… you know."_

_Central Park was beautiful in the winter, snowy and white like a true wonderland. In contrast, Troy Bolton was awful looking in this particular season, with five o'clock shadow and a shoulder slump he had seemed to only recently develop. "Man, I'm sorry," Chad mumbled when he reached the bench upon which they sat. They stood up and half-hugged, before Taylor kissed the hotshot's cheek and looked at him sadly._

_"We're both sorry," she said. He nodded and took a seat on the other side of his best friend._

_"Where's—" Chad motioned to Troy's empty hands. He felt no need to speak any more words than he already had._

_"Baby-sitter," Troy provided, rubbing her eyes. "Some kid down the hall. It's actually the first time we've ever used one—before, Gabriella always was there to be the mother. But that was before."_

There seemed to be shock in the phone lines, because Troy could practically hear the surprise oozing through the receiver. "Yeah, I know," he grimaced as he spoke, "I haven't even mentioned her name, except for when Harris first asked about her. He was only six, which put Ari at four. I kept wondering what does a twenty-something man tell his children when they ask about this woman that they _think_ should be a part of their lives. The truth? The truth that always makes a lump form in my throat and my head ache? They couldn't handle it." He swallowed. "And they still can't."

Taylor sighed inaudibly. "What do they think really happened?"

There wasn't much of an answer. Troy only hiccupped and pushed the heel of his sneaker against the leg of the kitchen table. "I just told them what they wanted to hear, because at such young ages that's all they could ask for. I told them she loved them, and that was that. They just needed something to grasp, something to believe. I don't even know if they remember me telling them that so many years later. But I know they couldn't comprehend what really happened. They're not that strong, I mean—they just couldn't."

Whether or not he liked to admit it, they _were_ smart children. They _could_ have dealt with The News. The problem was that in all actuality their father couldn't, even given the many years since It happened.


	8. Journey

Chapter Eight, Innovation

A/N: This should be the last update for a while, I guess until I get the story in order, plus I have finals at school right now. Wish me luck, lovelies!

I promised the old high school gang would be back in action, and I try to keep my promises as best as I can. Chad and Taylor appeared (and will turn up again later) so now you have… Dun dun dun. Read to find out. :) -love- Desireé

Chapter Eight, Journey

_I took the Polaroid down in my room_

_I'm pretty sure you have a new girlfriend_

_It's not as if I don't like you_

_It just makes me sad whenever I see it_

'_Cause I like to be gone most of the time_

_And you like to be home most of the time_

_-'Tire Swing,' Kimya Dawson_

An argument that had never been—and most likely never would be—resolved was whether or not everything happened for a reason. Arielle remembered the debate she had with her father last spring, when she came home with a broken arm and a dramatic bike accident under her belt. Troy insisted everything had a motive, an explanation, a pretext that would give it purpose in the world. She, on the contrary, said the pain shooting from her wrist to her shoulder was pointless and 'karma's way of making sure she stayed miserable.' When they got home, he smiled and heedfully set a pillow beneath her cast. "It's a blessing in disguise, Ari, I'm sure," he told her, ruffling her hair. "You'll think about this one day, all grown up, and be grateful it wasn't a serious injury. Baby steps."

Now, a year older, Arielle sat at the dinner table next to her brother, thinking about Gabriella. Did her leaving have an objective? Or was it, by stroke of fate, that she abandoned a life that didn't really _seem_ half bad? Every few seconds she would direct her attention back to the conversation between her aunt and brother and listen to them talk about past Christmases and memories she for some reason didn't recall. Harris was nodding and smiling; once again, she felt detached from something that probably should have fascinated a girl her age.

"Arielle, are you all right? You look a little washed out," April remarked. The young girl pushed her tongue against her front teeth and tore a piece of chicken away from her plate; Baby steps, she reminded herself.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she said, forcing herself to smile. Suddenly her hands were sweating and her lips seemed listless and her entire mind had drawn a blank. What words, exactly, should you use when asking about a woman who, when you got down to the basics, may be fictitious? Arielle set her fork down and concentrated on the centerpiece of the table. "I know this might be a hopeless quest, but about our mother… Gabriella, I mean." She looked up finally and saw the somewhat shrewd expression in April's eyes. "I don't know what I want to find out," she continued, trying to suppress her apprehension, "but I feel like she's so close yet our dad is this… barrier between us. And I guess I want to know where you play into everything."

There was a long pause and April paced herself, knowing sooner or later Troy would find out what she will have told his children, and he wouldn't be happy. "Gabriella left when she was twenty-one, same age as your father," she said, her voice as even as she could manage, "and when she left, I was the only person who had known beforehand." The truth now out, she gasped slightly, just as stunned as Harris and Arielle. Across the table, they were still, faces sober. Their aunt continued, "I kept wanting to tell Troy, thinking maybe he could fix everything before it was too late. But at the same time, I also knew that I was a confidante and if I broke that trust at the last minute, I could never get it back, therefore I never said anything."

The teenagers were both rendered speechless. Arielle felt her world fall out from under her, like a trembling earth that would never stop shaking. Harris felt his mouth hang open, and his eyes were narrow, as if he couldn't imagine such a story. April compressed her lips, and smiled tautly. "I know it comes as surprise," she exhaled, wondering how to say the next few things, "For the months to follow, I was sick over the whole issue. And then the worst came. Gabriella called me." She bit down on her thumbnail, quivering. "She told me where she was and what the new town was like. We talked for hours about everything, except Troy. I thought about bringing him up, but that seemed to be impossible. She avoided the issue whenever I brought up family matters."

"You've known where she was all this time?" It was Arielle that had spoken, but she faced the floor and her hands were clenched in anger. She swallowed and gazed at her brother, before finally turning to April. "Thirteen years and not once did you even _think_ to tell our dad?"

Incredulity replaced the worried sentimentality on April's face. "It's not that easy—" But suddenly, she stopped. The children looked confused, and she could only imagine Troy's fury when he found out about this little chitchat. "I know, I should have told him, but it isn't as simple as that. It wouldn't have fixed the problems they were having, it may have just complicated things even more."

An eerie silence splashed across the table, Arielle noiseless, Harris confounded, April guilty. The young girl finally stood up, the back of her legs pushing her chair. "I'm tired," she announced. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

**TYWY**

There was a buzz from the desk downstairs, and Troy glanced at the clock. It was the sixteenth, approximately seven o'clock at night. He didn't expect any deliveries, and the art friends who painted like he did must have been on vacation. "Mr. Bolton?" the lobby clerk rang him. "You have a visitor. She says she knows you, and she's here to pick up some work of Ms. Noel. Her name is… Sharpay Evans?" His stomach flipped.

"Should I send her up?" the clerk inquired after he didn't say anything. "She insists you went to school together… In fact, I think I recognize her face from—"

"Please, send her up," Troy interrupted. He rubbed his eyes and tried to imagine when Cassandra had mentioned Sharpay stopping by. "Thank you, Lynn."

After five painful minutes of wondering what conversation topics would possibly interest the drama queen from his high school days over sixteen years earlier, Troy finally heard the front door open. It was like Sharpay to let herself in somewhere. "Hello-o?" she said in a singsong voice. "I'm ba-ack!"

"Wow," Troy grumbled, coming into the front room and pulling his hood over his head. "Make yourself right at home, Shar."

She smirked at him. "That's no way to greet your good old friend from East High after a whole decade," she chided, smacking her lips together as she applied a coat of gloss via a compact mirror. Sharpay stared at him for a moment, and then observed the loft. "Where's the mini-Boltons?"

"My sister's," he said blandly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "The clerk said you needed something of Cassandra's up here?"

The hobo bag around her arm buzzed, and Sharpay reached for her phone. She frowned at a text message and then nodded, looking back to Troy. "Yes, she's got a portfolio for me. I have a new clothing line in progress, and she offered to model some pieces," she informed him. "Is she here?"

"No. She's on vacation with her parents at a spa resort." The artist busied himself with the dirty plates in the sink, rinsing them and then loading them into the dishwasher. "I guess her portfolio is somewhere around here. Go ahead and look, because I sure as hell don't feel like searching myself."

The bag buzzed again. Sharpay clicked her tongue. "Well, who rained on your parade?" she asked curiously, leaning with her back against the kitchen counter, watching him. "Come on, Troy, I've known you since we were four. You were never a cranky guy—and for the children's sake I hope you didn't turn into one—so obviously something big is bothering you. What is possibly getting your boxers in a twist?"

He turned around and glanced at her. "One, can we not talk about my underwear, please?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes in an if-you-say-so fashion. "Two, nothing if bothering me, and three, even if I told you what was wrong you would never be able to keep your mouth shut about it."

"Hah!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "You said 'even if I told you what was wrong,' which means something _is_ wrong. Now, while I am stuck here looking for Cass' portfolio, I'd like to have at least an interesting gossip subject. So, what's plaguing your oh so perfect life?"

The fact that I am thirteen years late to begin to wonder about Gabriella, he said silently. Sharpay, being the smart and radical designer she was, heard him all the same.

**TYWY**

Boston was a quiet town compared to New York City. Arielle sat on one of the twin beds in the guest room, looking at the letters she had written, addressed to Gabriella, so many times. They all started with a civil tone that pretended the family would reunite one day. Then they launched into random facts about life, like tests at school and boys she liked and what movies were playing. Eventually, the emotion would run high and tears would blot the words, smudging the ink. An apology would ensue, and Arielle would end the letter fondly.

At that moment, she began to giggle, realizing what nonsense this was. Just like Troy that afternoon at the loft, she giggled until she laughed, and she laughed until she cried, and then she was quiet, feeling her lashes flicker as she blinked repeatedly. "Hey." Arielle looked up, seeing her aunt in the doorway.

The first thing out of her mouth was, "Where _is_ Gabriella?"

Coming to sit on the bed, April smiled sadly. "I don't even know if she is still there," she said warningly, and her niece shrugged. "It was some small town in New Jersey. Sampson, I think. I wondered about it every day. I wanted to look it up, see where this girl that's practically my _sister_ ended up. But I told myself not to get involved, because then I would be mending someone else's wounds." She hesitated. "Does that make any sense?"

The girl sitting next to her didn't respond. She hugged her knees self-consciously and finally mumbled, "All this time she's been so close. While I pretended I was _sure_ she would return, a part of me was secretly wondering if she was on the other side of the world, with a new family and a new life, just like Harris said. He doesn't want to meet her, you know, because he's positive if we get our hopes up they'll just get pushed down again." Arielle rested her chin in her hand, looking blankly at her bags on the floor. "God, I can't believe she's been somewhere so simple as New Jersey."

"Hold on there," April quickly intervened, "it's been twelve years. She could have moved, Ari. I know you want to think she's still in Sampson, or wherever, but she may as well be in the Arctic Circle now."

"Twelve years?" Arielle raised her eyebrows.

"We talked a few times after that," the blue-haired woman confessed, her shoulders slouching as she leaned over her lap. "I know it's horrible of me to have kept this in, but what was I supposed to do after your father married Cassandra? That would be catastrophic. Troy had already been through so much, I decided to put the hope to rest."

The letters seemed brittle in Arielle's hands as she scooped them up. "I still want to find her," she said softly. At this, she looked up at her aunt, face relaxed and hopeful.

April's eyes widened as she realized what her niece was implying. "What? Do you expect us to take a three o'clock train down to Trenton?" she said, half-laughing and half-stammering.

"Well, we could drive if you wanted," the girl proposed, shrugging innocently. "Don't Priuses only have to get their gas tank filled, like, once every three weeks? But the train sounds more probable. I'm sure that's, like, ten times as fast."

The woman groaned, leaning against the pillows on the mattress. "Your father is going to kill me for following through with this," she said sharply, covering her face with her hands and peeking through her fingers.

"So you'll do it?" Arielle cried, throwing her arms around April. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She kissed her cheek and squealed happily.

"I guess we're not staying here for long then," came a voice, and Arielle smiled at her brother in the bedroom doorway. Harris nodded at his duffle bag, arms folded across his chest. "Good thing I didn't unpack."

**TYWY**

The Sharpay Evans in kindergarten thought Troy Bolton was cute. The Sharpay Evans in elementary thought he would make a suitable boyfriend. The Sharpay Evans in middle school thought he was a gorgeous basketball player. The Sharpay Evans in high school was in love with him, or actually, in love with the _idea_ of him. The Sharpay Evans in college finally moved on from that world and launched into the land of clothing design.

The Sharpay Evans who was thirty-four years old, extremely famous and incredibly wealthy, wondered why the hell she was sitting in Troy Bolton's living room, listening to him like a damn psych patient moan about his life. She had fished around for the portfolio, however to no avail, and ended up munching on a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels while she absorbed his words. "It bewildered me to learn you were marrying Cassandra," she said after a while.

The words stinging, he glared at her. "You know why I did it," he hissed.

She rolled her eyes. "When you use that tone with me you get your boxers in a knot again," the designer said emphatically. He scowled and waited for other insight. She let out a puff of air and he wondered if the drama queen smoked. "Cassandra is the _epitome_ of everything opposite to you. I was always jealous of your chemistry with Gabriella, so to hear about your marriage to… a supermodel is quite staggering." She watched him shift uncomfortably along the sofa cushions, and her mindset softened. "You really do miss her then."

Troy sat up, biting his lower lip anxiously. "I didn't miss her before," he sighed. "Or at least I think I didn't. She never crossed my mind once, until Arielle started asking about her. That's when things became awkward, and suddenly Harris looked a lot like Gabriella and Arielle looked a lot like _me_. I thought if I pretended Gabriella didn't exist, they wouldn't want to know about her. That seemed to be the opposite."

Sharpay clasped her hands, centralizing her gaze on the outer buttons of her handbag. "Of course it is," she chuckled. "I haven't seen them for a while, but I remember their intelligence perfectly. They're both smart, Troy. I think you underestimate their abilities. Have you told them… about everything?"

The clock announced eight-thirty. He shook his head. "I don't think they could handle it," he said, reminiscing what he told Chad and Taylor. "It's a huge complication in their lives; they don't deserve that heaviness."

"Do you?" counteracted the designer, glancing at him tentatively. "You know when Ari asks about it, she wants the facts. And you're her father. That gives you the choice to be brutal but truthful or gentle but dishonest. What would _you_ want?"

**TYWY**

_"He looks exactly like you," Gabriella said proudly when she picked up the infant in her arms. She still had the hospital wristband snapped around her arm, stating her name and age and room number. Behind her, Troy smiled maturely, his hands resting on her shoulders._

_"Oh yes, the black hair and bronzed skin tone and dark eyes just scream Troy Bolton," he said with a laugh. Her back arched for a moment as she kissed the baby's head, glowing with pride over this little child that was theirs._

_"Well, maybe he doesn't look very much like you," she decided, "but I know he'll be just as great an athlete and singer as you are."_

_Troy looked at her cautiously. "I thought we agreed to no more singing after the talent show at Lava Springs," he reminded her. "Remember? Sharpay coming between us, making you all dramatic and me act like a jerk? Singing was the center point to all that drama, you know."_

_Gabriella giggled. "Oh?" she asked, keeping Harris close to her as she settled on the couch of their apartment. "I don't think so. That was just human nature. Strive for success, fraternize with the enemy, and maybe even give your boyfriend back the necklace with his initial on it."_

_The hotshot grimaced. "Somehow you got it back in time for 'Everday,'" he reflected, glancing at the traffic outside on the avenue. "I never asked you how that happened, because when you left, I had the necklace, and then all of the sudden it was laying on your beautifully carved collar bone."_

_Another giggle slipped from her lips, causing Harris to stir. "Oh, right. I actually got Ryan to search your stuff, since he was the only one who had access to the 'special employee' lounge. You're quite predictable, you know. He found the necklace five minutes into snooping through your backpack the day of the show. I was quite relieved, it wouldn't have been as dramatic an entrance without that embellishment."_

_A smirk playing across his lips, Troy sat down next to her and flipped on the T.V. "Well, Ms. Montez, now that we're home with the baby after a really hellish nine months of morning sickness and bizarre cravings, what do you propose we do?"_

_"Sleep," she replied, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I'm tired. It's been a long day."_

_He kissed her softly. "We'll have more long days after this one, and we'll get tired again, but the destination is only as good as the journey, right?" She grinned against his lips and Harris yawned in her grasp with a sweet smile only a baby could retain._

**TYWY**

It was the seventeenth of December when Gabriella wondered if she should put up Christmas decorations. The Witching Hour was looking a little humbug-ish. When she called to consult Zora, the woman replied, "Do you celebrate it?"

"Christmas? Yes," came the hesitant answer. "But it's nothing special. I live alone, after all."

"Well, put them up anyway," Zora said. "It might just get you in the holiday spirit."

There were icicle lights to be hung up in the front, some reindeer with necks that moved for the sidewalk, a fake Christmas tree that looked a lot the Charlie Brown sapling in the cartoon, and lastly, stockings. Gabriella hesitated when she glanced at the fireplace. "They'll be for the four friends I have," she decided. But while she fastened them over the hearth, her mind involuntarily flashed back to a memory she so desperately wished to forget.

_"Oh, baby's first Christmas!" Theresa Montez laughed and clapped as Jack Bolton snapped a photo of the new family, the second and third generation. "He's such a sweet little child, I can't believe it's already been so long since the birth."_

_"September twenty-second, two thirty-one in the morning," Gabriella said proudly, kissing the infant's forehead. "He's officially four months, three days, six hours, and eighteen minutes old." Troy leaned against her, whispering in her ear. She blushed and looked down at their son, who stared back at his parents with bright brown eyes._

_The Montez family and the Boltons had merged for the holidays, Theresa flying in from Albuquerque alongside the in-laws, Jack and Lillian. They crowded in the two-bedroom apartment, cooing over their grandchild. Gabriella kept him with her at all times, feeling her maternal instincts steady. "Brie, you're arms must be tired, why don't you go put Harris down for a rest?" Troy suggested, holding her face in his hands._

_She shook her head. "I'm fine, I like carrying him around," she told him. He sighed and nodded, just as the adults began to exchange presents. Gabriella smiled. "Come on, let's join them."_

**TYWY**

"Your father is going to kill me when he finds out I'm taking a train with you guys down to New Jersey," April warned the teenagers when they arrived at the station the night after the confessional, their bags in hand. She had packed herself an overnighter, and quite nervously. "He's going to disown me as a sister. He's going to kill me, bury me, dig me back up so—"

"So that he can kill you again, I know," Arielle sighed as they waited in line at the ticket booth. Her aunt raised an eyebrow. The girl added, "You said that on the way over here."

Harris snickered and April elbowed him. "What?" he asked. "You did. Dad won't _kill_ you; maybe he'll shout and rant for a couple hours, but murder is a really drastic term."

On the train, they played card games, like War and Go Fish, hoping for a distraction while the trio all secretly worried about whatever was waiting for them when the train came to a complete stop. _The destination is only as good as the journey_.

A/N: I rewrote this about four times and I still didn't like the outcome. Ugh, I'm trying really hard to limit the original character time. That's why Sharpay was introduced here. Hopefully those scenes didn't upset anyone. (I've attempted some Troypay friendship before and it didn't pan out so well.) I'm trying to get the whole gang back together (and make sure Harris and Arielle don't drive everyone crazy). What's that calling? The review button! Oh, goodness, let's not keep it waiting. :) -love- Desireé


	9. Destination

Chapter Nine,

A/N: No reports. I am currently freaking out over the whole Heath Ledger thing… That was a huge shock for my friends and me. RIP, and may his family get through this difficult time. On another note, I probably am not going to be on the computer for a while after this. Again. My finals went well mostly, but my mother (being the overbearing person she just so happens to be) is upset my math exam was…. negligent. Anyway, enjoy? -love- Desireé

Chapter Nine, Destination

_I listened in_

_Yes I'm guilty of this you should know this_

_I broke down and wrote you back before you had a chance to_

_Forget forgotten_

_I am moving past this giving notice_

_I have to go_

_Yes I know the feeling, know you're leaving_

_-'The Con', Tegan and Sara_

There were three things that Gabriella Montez especially hated.

One of them was Troy Bolton. The reasons were obvious; at least, she supposed them to be. No one really knew the back-story, the gruesome details, or the uncivil shouts that echoed through the apartment in the final days leading up to her departure. But still, it was easy to see she despised Troy Bolton. Right? (Adeline being the exception. She was particularly convinced that there was some leftover passion between them, in spite of the very apparent physical distance and occasional rant.)

Another thing was music. She couldn't stand it when people played their car radios louder than necessary; they were just so arrogant. The iPods got on her nerves. Two hundred bucks was not worth something that could pass for a compact mirror. And of course, the Broadway fanatics that occasionally blew through Sampson annoyed her to no end. They all raved about Wicked, and RENT, and Mamma Mia! But the thing that Gabriella hated most about music is that it was what brought her to Troy, and, in a way, also tore them apart.

The third thing was, ironically enough, five-three and dark-haired and incredibly panicky—also translated to simply 'herself'. She didn't realize this, though, until December the seventeenth when she curled her fingers around the curtain and glanced out the window to see two young adults staring back at the building. Her heart stopped briefly, and she wondered what it would be like to die.

It was then that for the first time in her life Gabriella Montez understood that death wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a person.

**TYWY**

"Aren't you coming in?"

Arielle was staring at her aunt from her spot on the street pavement, arms folded over her chest and elbows propped on the car door. The blue-haired woman sat in the driver's seat, hands on the wheel and eyes narrow as she stared at the name 'The Witching Hour'. "I don't think so," she said, and then paused, pretending to consider this. "No, I'm not."

"Why _not?_" Arielle pressed, leaning toward her so she could see the frown lines in the woman's forehead. She counted six exactly, invisible unless worry panned out on the face. "We can't go alone. What if there's a serial killer in there, and we knock, and he answers and then _murders_ us?"

Shivering slightly from the bitter cold, Harris raised an eyebrow and turned to stare at his sister. "What makes you so sure it would be a 'he'? I'm certain there are serial killers that are female, too."

The blonde shrugged. "Yeah, maybe, but girls are smart. If we want to kill, we wouldn't be waiting around for teenagers to come to the door—the person would be dead already."

April lost color for a moment. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you confidently illustrate that homicide tactic and just get going, okay?" she said, fanning her cheeks with a hand. The children sighed. "I know, I know, you're all excited and everything. But look, I was the last to see Gabriella before she left; I don't think I deserve to be the first to see her now. You guys go up and ring the doorbell or something. It's a shop, so maybe you can just go inside. I'll drive around the block, so if you're still here, then I'll take you to the motel or something."

Her eyes began to institute an apology, and Arielle smiled. "It's okay, I know you've already done your part." She crouched down and hugged her aunt awkwardly, the car's frame cutting into her stomach. Harris nodded lightly and did the same, saying the good byes in a fairly sad way.

The rental car, a puke green compact that should _never_ have been up for grabs at the dealership, drove away and Arielle hugged her duffle bag as she glanced up at the shop name again. "'The Witching Hour'," she read, clearing her throat. "I wonder… If she's there. I mean, for real for real, _there_."

Beneath their snow boots, the ice crunched. Harris smiled up at the building, eyes squinted; in that moment, that rare moment, he looked like Troy. "Only one way to find out."

**TYWY**

There was one thing Troy Bolton hated.

Well, several things. But those were more strong dislikes, and this was pure hatred.

Originally, he didn't mind music. He didn't object to the alternative rock, the jazzy pop, the sent-straight-from-hell heavy metal. They were all, by a way of evolution, a part of him. They were a part of all teenagers. Music had introduced him to the girl he loved with all he had; the girl he had chased for years upon years. But music had also—in some way shape or form—killed him.

Figuratively speaking, of course. He was still a normal guy on the outside, but inside there was a spot on his soul devoted to music—and was now empty. Troy stopped listening to his albums not long after Arielle celebrated her first birthday. He was trying his hardest not to get distracted; the children would be his first and perhaps only priority. But the idea that his daughter listened to the same tunes, the same melodies, the same lyrics he did which grinded his ears or punctured the wounds he had sealed so long ago made him shiver.

Although, the constant shaking of picture frames and phone calls from the neighbors, he admitted, were missed. Peace and quiet weren't the best things in the world, even if Troy Bolton wished otherwise.

**TYWY**

The bell rang, signaling the front door was open and someone would be coming in. _A customer or two_. Gabriella felt her entire body go numb. She sat at her desk, trying to concentrate on the stack of papers as best as she could. Focus, focus, focus. "Hello?" asked a voice. It was the girl's. It was her speaking.

The dark-haired woman stood up and peered around the corner, trying to seem pleasant. _If you don't panic, they don't panic_. Gabriella smiled with her lips closed and zipped up her hoodie jacket. She thought it smelled like Troy, but of course no one else knew this. Secrets—most of which, Theresa Montez had always said, were meant to be spilled or shared—would always eventually morph into little savages that haunted your mind. _Savages: attack_. "Welcome," she said, eyes as bright as possible and face sore from the sudden emotion. "Um, this is 'The Witching Hour' and it's not exactly a very tidy boutique but I am sure you'll find something…" She trailed off to find the girl gaping at her.

"Something wrong?" she asked, swallowing.

"I—I—I can't…" And then, Arielle Bolton introduced herself in a very not-so-normal fashion by fainting forward and crumbling onto Gabriella Montez's body, with her face milk-white and hands sweaty. Behind them, her brother swore beneath his breath in a very Troy-like fashion. Old habits die hard.

**TYWY**

There was an awkward silence when Gabriella finally managed to drag Arielle up the stairs to her apartment and lay her on the couch. Harris watched nervously, wringing his hands over and over again while he wondered why he hadn't spoken to his mother yet. She was a beautiful woman, older with age and sadder with tragedy. He longed to reach out and hug her, touch her, anything as long as it had to do with her. He was fifteen and he had never known what a mother was until now, watching her dab a wet wash cloth to Arielle's forehead. "She took quite a fall," she mused after a spell of stillness.

"Um, yeah…" The teenager shifted with a cough. "Our parents forgot to give her… her meds. She's. Got. Um. Epilepsy." He looked down at the floor and mentally kicked himself. Cover stories had never been his strong suit.

"That's seizures, Harris," Gabriella replied stiffly, turning to glance at him. Her face was dark, but there was a joy in her eyes he liked.

"So I guess there's no use trying to pretend we're someone else."

She shook her head. "Not really." Then the uncomfortable quiet set in, making Gabriella eager to get up and greet the son she knew, and making Harris want to go back to New York City. Damn Arielle.

"I don't suppose your father still has a sailor's mouth, too," she finally said, pressing the cloth to the girl's forehead again. Strands of hair clung to her damp skin, making lines curve around her eyebrows like roads on a map. _Destination: unknown_.

Harris blinked. "What?" Gabriella looked up at him, and he saw himself in her. "Oh, you mean… The F-word. Right. Yeah, I'm sorry. That was a bad first impression. Um, my dad—_our_ dad—doesn't cuss a lot. He just gets mad sometimes and drops like 'shit' and stuff accidentally, before he can catch himself. But nothing else. Really." He cleared his throat awkwardly and forced a smile. She returned the favor, one he thought was just as strained, but the hint of delight was still in her gaze, one similar to his.

"Still the same as I remember then," she said softly, looking back down to Arielle and humming abruptly, as if holding back tears. "She will be up soon, we'll just give her some time. So, would you like some tea?"

The boy cocked his head to one side and stared down at his sister. "Yeah," he finally gave in, "I would." He followed Gabriella—his _mother_—into the kitchen and looked around casually, when inside his heart was beating like a hummingbird's. "So you live here… by yourself?"

She reached for the cupboard and nodded with a stiff posture. "If you want to know if you have a stepfather, the answer is no," she replied, turning to look at him again. But this time, she really looked, without the bitter impatience or the expected indifference. The way he half-smiled, the way his eyes seemed to swallow you even if he didn't mean for it, the small cough in his voice that was there to save him from any conversation blunders, it all reminded her of what she had always wanted him to be: the perfect combination of her and Troy. _Results: pending_.

**TYWY**

"Remind me again why we're here?" Ryan Evans asked his sister when she dragged him through the streets of New York City, her hand clamped around his in an effort not to let him get away and disappear into the public. The man tilted his head up toward the clouds, which were heavy and gray with the potential of a storm.

"I thought," Sharpay replied huffily, as if she had explained this plenty of times—which she had, "that Troy might like a little unofficial reunion. You know, minus the Gabriella part." She finally pulled her brother into a restaurant planted on the outskirts of Times Square, smiling cheerfully when her eyes locked with the host's. "John! I'm so glad this all went smoothly. You're looking lovely, working out?"

The man, clearly older than one would assume the drama queen would like, beamed bashfully and shrugged. "Only a little," he confessed, gathering a pile of menus on the podium.

"I knew it," Sharpay said with extra fluff in her voice. "Now, is the room ready upstairs? The gig starts in approximately twenty-three minutes, I don't want to be wasting time with last minute details!"

John shook his head and ushered them upstairs. They arrived in the private party room of the NY brasserie, and Sharpay gave a nod to gesture her blessing. "Perfect, you're just amazing!" she squealed, kissing the host on the cheek and clapping her hands together. Ryan cleared his throat and she stole a second to glare at him before turning back to the environment before them, complete with lit candles and ivory tablecloths. "Oh, this is just superb."

When they were alone finally, Ryan snickered as he picked up a fork and set it back down again. "Oh, just superb, just marvelous, just oh so incredibly _amazing_," he impersonated his sister, and a little too freakishly well. He waved his hand in front of his face and batted his eyelashes. Adding a drawl to his voice, he said, "Oh, my, this is just one overwhelming bane-kwet!"

"You're such a dork," Sharpay sighed, coming to stand next to him and look around once more for the final stamp of approval. "You think it'll help him get out of the dumps? I went to see him yesterday. He doesn't look too hot."

The blond man raised an eyebrow. "_You_ went to go see _Troy_… alone?" She scoffed and swatted his arm, including an eye roll when he winced.

"I have a fiancé, thank you very much for the credit, Ry-_an_," she said with a sneer. "And I've got way more self-control than I did in high school. Jesus, do you not realize that people can change?"

He glanced at her and his shoulders went up slightly, then down again. "Fine, then. What was the first question?"

"I asked if it'll help him be happy again," Sharpay replied, putting her hands on her hips. "Now that I think about it, I'm not entirely sure he would want to see the class, what with them probably not aware of his little _show-down_ with Gabriella. But it's been a long time; maybe he's moved on. He did mention how much he was thinking about her though…"

Ryan interrupted her with a sputter. "Wait, rewind, rewind, rewind," he said to her, blinking a few times as if to get a clear image in his mind of the scene she was spinning. "First of all, I just realized—you met with him yesterday and you got all this done so quickly? It's five-thirty!"

She grinned proudly. "Aren't I a miracle worker, Mr. Evans?" she coaxed, although her voice hinted it was more a statement than a question.

"And our entire class is coming," he checked.

"Hah, they _wish_. Only the people that matter, like Chad and Taylor and Jason and Kelsi and Zeke and Martha and Troy, of course. Maybe a few cheerleaders that hooked with the basketball team once in a blue moon, and I even managed to contact a few of the skater kids, however _awful_ a conversation that was. They all sound so dead, it was painful to even try explaining my plan to them…" She stopped when she saw him looking at her again. "_What?_"

A waiter walked by and began checking for any candles that could have gone out. Ryan blew on one in a very un-Ryan way, just for spite. "So, they're all coming. All of them. On a less-than-twenty-four-hour notice," he said, pressing his palms together and lingering on his words.

"Well it's not like they just yippety-doo-dah agreed," Sharpay informed him, smiling appreciatively as the waiter came by and begrudgingly relit the candle Ryan had snuffed. "They were hesitant at first. I mean, did you know Martha actually lives in Hawaii? And Zeke, he's in France. You don't know how much I had to pay just to get him to _consider_ coming."

"_You paid for their trips?_" he gasped, his eyes as big as spheres. "Sharpay, that—that—that must have cost a fortune!"

She monotonously waved her hand over her face, quirking her brows slightly. "Hello? Famous fashion designer here?"

"Money doesn't—" He panted hastily, out of breath, "—grow on trees, Shar."

"Yeah, but it sure does come out of a lot of ATMs," she retorted nonchalantly. The door opened and Chad and Taylor Danforth appeared, looking slightly homesick, even if this city was nothing like Albuquerque. Sharpay popped her foot and smiled at her brother, hands clasped and head flexed to one side. "And then there were four."

**TYWY**

April knew she was dead when she saw her brother's number dance across her home phone Caller ID. "He-ey," she said nervously when she answered. "What's up, little bro?"

"How're you?" Troy blurted out. "How is Arielle? And Harris? Are they being good houseguests? Ari isn't, you know, blasting her music at full volume or anything because if she is, I can totally come to get them and—"

She laughed, trying to relax. "Cool it, T, they're fine."

"Oh. Well, that's good. Can I talk to them?"

The woman froze. "They are, um, in the shower."

"What?"

"Not both of them." Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I, uh, meant that Harris is in the shower and Arielle is taking a nap." _Please buy it, please buy it, please buy it_.

He exhaled. "Ari is napping?" April mmhmmed and crossed her fingers. Fish, fish, got her wish. "She never naps. Hmm, maybe you're teaching her something useful…"

"Yeah, well, as long as they are here they might as well learn some good… techniques… for life." Oh so lame.

"Can you just tell them—tell them that I called and that I love them and that I'm going out to a party tonight so I'll just call later?"

April nodded and then realized he couldn't see her. "Oh, yeah, definitely. Well, um, bye little brother. Talk to you soon. Say hi to, um, well not the kids since they're here. With me. Just… say hi to your landlord. Bye."

Family was a strange thing, but Troy missed his son and daughter all the same.

**TYWY**

Arielle wondered where she was and why the hell her stomach felt like it was made of paper when she woke up an hour later. Harris was sitting next to her and he smiled to see her awake. "You know your name?" he inquired, looking down at his imaginary clipboard and chewing on his nonexistent fountain pen.

"Arielle Bolton," she said automatically.

"And you're how old?"

"Thirteen. Born December 1st, 2011. My dad… Oh. Wait. Gabriella."

Harris looked away and he took a breath. "She's downstairs," he said quietly. "You've been out for a little while now. She knows who we are."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know."

**TYWY**

Everyone knew of Gabriella and Troy's absent romance, so Sharpay had nothing to worry about when every guest was officially at the party. She grinned at the pianist in the corner and carried two glasses of champagne over to Troy, who was standing alone. "All by himself?" she cooed, handing him a drink that would never meet his lips.

"Naturally," he said, voice toneless.

"You're going to have to give me more to work with than that, Mr. Allstar," she said, sipping her beverage and nudging him.

"Aren't you a clothing designer? _Imagination_ is part of the job."

"Off the clock," she countered and he cracked a smile. "So, having fun yet?"

"I'll let you know when that happens."

"Atta boy."


	10. Memoir

A/N: Okay! I've officially decided to continue writing just because I've found you guys _do_ like it; I think the core problem is my updating habit. For all my other stories, I did update quite often, and this one is different because it was started around the holidays and I just recently had my school finals. But now, I've worked out my schedule enough so that I can update at _least_ every three days. The length of time between updates can vary as much as one days to four days, considering there are times when I don't have as much access to the computer—example: my mother's concern about my math final. That ended up getting resolved and now I have time. :)

Since I didn't want to keep the author's note as a chapter, I'm replacing it with this, like a bonus chapter: a flashback. It's completely set in the past, but I won't italicize it since I know that can get annoying to read. So just note: it's not set in Troy and Gabriella's present day.

Yeesh, this is a really long A/N. I hope the effort is worth it, like you guys said. Thank you _very_ much for your suggestions and your support. -love- Desireé

P.S. I. Am. So. So. So. Sorry. This is way late, I was trying to get up so often this past week, but I've been really sick with the flu again. :( Hopefully the bonus chapter makes up for it?

Chapter Ten, Memoir

_But things just get so crazy living life gets hard to do_

_Sunday morning rain is falling and I'm calling out to you_

_Singing Sunday it'll bring me back to you_

_Find a way to bring myself back home to you_

_-'Sunday Morning', Maroon 5_

It was Halloween of the next year, and things hadn't changed much since 'Baby's First Christmas' with the exception that Gabriella—much to her relief—got her figure back in shape and Harris was an entire year older. His mother tended to him often, and his father reminded her just as frequently that pampering him wouldn't do any good. They were a happy family, and the young parents were finally getting a break as Taylor and Chad came to visit and acted as the babysitters.

Still, their reason to go out wasn't exactly Troy's idea of fun. "Why do we have to go this party that Sharpay is hosting?" he sighed, looking down at his attire. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and the Danforths had just arrived (neither would be very disappointed that they had not warranted an invitation to the soiree when they saw Troy's getup); they were now cooing over Harris in the living room of the loft. The father, in the bedroom, shook one leg and grimaced at his pants. "I look like a _clown_, Gabriella! Who would wear this? Honestly, not even for Halloween! It's atrocious!"

Sticking a gold good in her ear, she smiled idly at him. "You're overreacting, honey, I know because you just used the word 'atrocious' and besides, I think you come off very _cute_. It makes perfect sense—I've got looks that just scream Jasmine, and with a little black spray paint and a fez, you are exactly like Aladdin! You know the party invitation specifically says to dress as a Disney character, and if you're going with a date, then a couple! And you _also_ know there's going to be a billion Ariels and Erics and Cinderellas and Prince Charmings, so we're going to be smart and go as the uncommon lovers." Gabriella adjusted her very slight, turquoise top and nodded firmly.

He wasn't convinced, despite the brief but impressive display of her chest. "I don't see why there has to be a theme for a Halloween party," he grumbled, mouth puckered. "It's Halloween! You dress up in a costume of your choice, go around asking for free candy, and that's it!"

The girl smiled and shrugged, coming up to stand before him and make last minute adjustments to his ensemble. He paid no mind to her aggravated glances when he didn't make the effort to help. "Well, if you're good tonight and can impress everyone—_even_ Sharpay—by being kind and respectful, then I'll reward you, like any good woman should to her boyfriend," she murmured in his ear. Troy craned his neck so his chin came to her eye level, but she could see his impatient enthusiasm. Childbirth didn't change everything.

When the two finally walked out into the living room, Chad burst out laughing. Troy folded his arms over his chest and scowled, piqued to be the subject of such amusement. Taylor smiled and, Harris balanced on her hip, came over to stand before Gabriella. "You both look very darling," she remarked with a chuckle. The baby she held rested his head on her shoulder. "But I don't think your date looks too happy to be wearing what he's wearing, however entertaining it is."

The black-haired girl grinned. "Well I gave him a choice between Aladdin's peasant outfit or the big, beige royal-looking hat and jumper he wears at the end; he then begrudgingly took the peasant option on the condition that he didn't have to carry around a fake Abu." Both women laughed and their boyfriends, an approximate ten feet away, had a similar conversation.

"Aren't you just a cute little Hallmark card?" Chad taunted, smirking as he leaned against the wall and observed Troy crossly pick at his purple vest. "Crap, she actually convinced you to wear that, dude? You've gone soft on me."

Taylor glanced at him. "Don't think for one minute I couldn't do the same thing, Mr. Danforth," she warned, and Chad blushed.

"Hah, so we're in the same boat then," Troy said proudly, but his curly-haired friend shook his head.

"On the contrary, kind fellow, _you_ are the one wearing the puffy white pants with a gold waistband," Chad goaded, smiling smugly like they were still in high school.

"We'll, I'll be getting some tonight. And you'll be babysitting Harris," Troy shot back lamely, knowing he was losing the argument quite radically.

"Whatever you say, man. I'm still the one wearing regular jeans."

**TYWY**

Gabriella Montez was always right.

No matter how much Troy Bolton hated to admit it.

At Sharpay's party, located in the penthouse she and her brother had inherited from some distant dead uncle, everyone was dressed as Belle and the Beast (this costume did not require much more than lack of a Gillette razor and a frilly shirt), or Snow White and… her prince, who did not have a name, according to IMDb. Anyway, the party was high profile, and it took Troy all his arm strength to elbow his way through the living room and finally reach the snacks table, Gabriella in tow. He was about to pick up a brownie bite when she nudged him and whispered, "Eating is not impressive. Food later. Socializing now."

He rolled his eyes but obeyed, glaring at any other guy who dare give him a double take. "Aladdin!" a voice squeaked finally and he winced. Sharpay appeared, Ryan behind her. "And Jasmine! Oh, that's _brilliant_." She wore a fairly altered pink dress, much like the one in _Sleeping Beauty_, with a white crown combed through her hair; she stood proudly with her cleavage on display like a piece at an art museum. Troy stared awkwardly and Ryan cleared his throat before Gabriella noticed; it would be much, much later in life that the basketball hotshot would realize that being an Evans didn't always mean you were evil.

"And you are, Ryan?" Gabriella asked, turning to the blond boy. He smiled and bowed, his long-sleeved black tee stretching over his purposefully flexed muscles and his red cape falling down on either side of him. "Prince Phillip never looked better."

"Of course not when he's got me for arm candy," Sharpay put in, kissing her brother's cheek. She finally looked at Troy for more than a moment, and had to stifle a laugh. "Aladdin, you look… dashing." Her face screwed up and she finally gave into the giggles. Troy glared at Gabriella, who smiled with closed lips, squeezed his hand reassuringly and mouthed _Reward_.

**TYWY**

The couple got home around midnight, tired and worn out and both a little forgetful of Gabriella's earlier promise. Taylor and Chad were smiling at the television, which was playing something Troy didn't recognize at first. "What are you guys watching?"

"The graduation video your dad taped," Chad supplied, taking his feet down off the coffee table when he received a look from Gabriella. The girl—still dressed like Jasmine—crawled tiredly onto Troy's lap and grinned at the TV screen as she saw their younger selves waving at the camera. High School Troy swooped High School Gabriella into his arms and ravished her with a kiss, before Lucile Bolton kindly reprimanded them and her husband Jack gave an obvious thumbs-up. "We found it in your box of keepsakes in the hallway closet."

"Why were _you_ looking in the hallway closet?" Gabriella asked, lifting her head from where it had rested on her boyfriend's shoulder. Troy glanced over her head to stare at his best friend.

Chad blanched. "I, um—"

Taylor caught him before he could kill it any further by smiling at the other two people across from them and folding her hands together. "Well, there are these things called _curiosity_ and _boredom_," she explained in a droning voice, and both Gabriella and Troy pursed their lips to keep from smiling, "and your son is too good of a baby to go to sleep right away, but he did so we had nothing to do but, well, quite frankly, snoop."

Another three hours passed before any of them realized how late it was and the older they got, the earlier the bedtime became (especially with the feature of a child in Troy's and Gabriella's lives). One yawn from Chad made Taylor look at her watch and smile, saying they'd flag down a taxi and go stay at a hotel until the morning, but Gabriella shook her head and insisted they stay at the loft.

At that moment, nothing was different. They were still all friends, they were only twenty years old, and things like _hurt_ and _anger_ and _dishonesty_ were mythical terms used to describe the shitty lives of others, people they did not know.

People they would, inevitably, become.


	11. Happy Ending

A/N: And the saga continues

A/N: And the saga continues. If you didn't catch it already, I made the tenth chapter a bonus flashback, so take a look if you want. Thanks again! I apologize this is quite late, I know I want to fix my updating habit. -love- Desireé

Chapter Eleven, Happy Ending

_I'm the voice inside your head_

_You refuse to hear_

_I'm the face that you have to face_

_Mirrored in your stare_

_I'm what's left, I'm what's right_

_I'm the enemy_

_I'm the hand that will take you down_

_Bring you to your knees_

_-'The Pretender', Foo Fighters_

Real. (adjective) 1. Actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact; not imagined or supposed. 2. Used to emphasize the significance or seriousness of a situation or circumstance.

Arielle liked definitions. They helped the world become a clearer place, even on the days where she didn't think she could figure out left from right. And now that she sat up, hearing the staircase creak and her brother clear his throat, she could add a new definition to the word 'real': 3. Gabriella Montez.

The literal definition of the word mother was 'a woman in relation to a child or children to whom she has given birth'. Arielle remembered her father told her, when she was little, it was 'a female parental figure made of sugar and spice and everything nice'. That interpretation, she thought, was better than the first. Gabriella finally appeared in the doorway, her hands clasped and eyes on both children tentatively. She waited a moment before parting her lips and uttering in the sweetest voice ever known to man, "Hello."

It was one word Arielle thought was magical. She smiled excitedly and Harris subtly nudged her foot with his: a warning to calm down. "Hi," she replied, nonetheless happy. In spite of the good feelings, her stomach bubbled with premonitions that were mostly relying on the past for reason; the woman that stood before them _could_ be gone again within the week. It didn't give her much credit, but it was possible. The girl opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing seemed appropriate for conversation. "Um, hi."

Gabriella laughed, and her realism sparked like the pop rocks Troy used to give the kids around Fourth of July to throw against the asphalt. "Well, I guess we can start with the basics," she said, folding her arms over her chest and crossing one foot in front of other. "How did you guys get here?"

"April," Harris said automatically. He closed his eyes shortly and opened them again to apologize under his breath. Arielle sighed and nodded. Her brother finished a little more clearly, "Aunt April took the train with us from Boston."

"How is she?" Gabriella asked, looking down at the ground as she spoke. Her hair fell, gravity pulling on the neglected split ends. Her face was flaming with embarrassment; this was the deserter. She had left, and they obviously knew it. If only they knew why, but it wasn't her place to say, just like it wasn't April's nor Taylor's or Chad's; only Troy's.

The wind outside died down for a moment, bringing the house to complete quiet. Harris hemmed and said, "She's good. She wanted to see you, but you know, she said another time."

Gabriella nodded. "Well, you guys want something to eat? I hear this one place makes killer grilled cheese sandwiches," she said with a grin.

"Where?" asked both children simultaneously.

"Here," she answered, face shining. This was what she wanted to feel: like she had a job, like she was wanted. Like a mother.

_Troy dials his children's cell phone numbers, to no avail._

The reunion, for being last minute and costly, was a hit. At least, this was true for most people. Baylee, one of the old cheerleaders, hooked up with one of the skater dudes by the third hour; the old gang was slowly making their way around full circle with conversation; and, of course, Ryan was hitting it off with the bartender. "My gay brother," Sharpay huffed, sitting down at the empty table where Troy was scrolling through his contact list, "gets laid more often than I do."

"I thought you were engaged," Troy replied, not looking up from his cell phone. "Goddamn it, why aren't they picking up?"

"I am," she informed him, ignoring the last sentence with her chin in her palm and elbow on the table. "But Milan is _never_ home free for very long, and I am not someone to give or get a quickie."

He snorted and finally glanced at her, eyes sparkling. "Milan? Your fiancé's name is _Milan_?"

"Yes, he's a very sexy designer-turned-model, I'll have you know _and_ he's named after a city in Italy. You, Bolton, are named after a Greek city that was the location of complete havoc over _one_ not-that-gorgeous blond girl and was later forgotten and discontinued on the map," Sharpay replied indignantly. She paused. "You haven't met him?"

"I haven't seen _you_ in over a year. Why would I have met _Milan_?" He emphasized the name and made a face.

She smiled and sipped her glass of champagne—bottomless, as it should be. "You know, you're a photographer, and I'm a fashion designer, and I've seen your work," she said grandly, continuing, "Why don't we get together and create a label? We could be called, 'Bevans'. I like that. Or Evoltons—ooh! That's even better! It sounds like evolutions! We'll be _groundbreaking_."

There was a loud crash across the room as Martha, somehow drunk by the only thing being served, Dom Perignon, accidentally dropped her flute and giggled loudly at the sound. The same candle waiter from earlier appeared tiredly and bent down to pick up the mess. Troy looked back at Sharpay and repeated, "Evoltons? I'm sorry, when did you start coming up with this idea? And you know I don't take photos professionally anymore. I stick with art."

"And let me be the first to break it to you that you suck with a pencil, and you're better with the camera," the drama queen told him, leaning forward in her chair. Troy rolled his eyes and Sharpay simpered. "I say you quit the gallery thing and come work for me. Plus, you'll get to see your honey bunny all the time. She's my top model; the interns just _adore_ her and they'd like you, too." She sighed and plucked his cell phone out of his hands. "Who are you trying to call exactly?"

"Arielle or Harris, but neither or them are answering texts or picking up my calls," he grunted. "I don't appreciate their neglect right now."

"You sound like Coach Bolton," Chad said, manifesting at the table slapping down in a chair on the other side of Sharpay, "when Jason, Zeke, and I all graffitied the wall in the gym that showed the Wildcat mascot slow-roasting a Knight that had the word 'pansy' sprayed across his stomach." He grinned at the memory as Taylor joined them. "Like father, like son, eh Troy?"

The man shook his head. "No, I'm _not_ like my father, I just wish they would pick up their fuc—" He stopped, face red. "I mean, I just wish they would pick up their phone."

"You were going to swear!" Taylor accused, pointing a finger. "You were going to say 'fuck'! Wow, Troy, you never swear. What's wrong?"

He grimaced. "_Nothing_ is wrong. I just want Ari, or Harris, to answer my flipping calls!" he replied hotly.

"That's more like it," Chad grumbled, and caught the glare from his best friend.

"I love champagne," Sharpay said to no one in particular, staring into her glass. The Danforths mumbled their reply of agreement and across the room, Martha giggled again. Reunions.

**TYWY**

Harris had gone to unpack their bags when it was agreed (over killer grilled cheeses) they could stay for the time being, at least until Troy began to wonder why his kids were never available to talk when April picked up her home phone. Now Arielle sat with Gabriella in the living room of the apartment,

"This is awkward," Arielle declared, staring at her lap when the fourth minute of silence began. She had been trying to make conversation for the past half hour, and now it was like she had been sitting for an entire day, in silence. Talk, talk, talk. About what? Truth, truth, truth. Gabriella smiled, and the girl relaxed. "I guess when I imagined meeting you, I thought everything would just fall into place. But now it's like we're at a road block."

"So, Cassandra isn't really like a mother to you," the woman reflected, taking in every feature and blemish on the other. "Even if she's been married to Tro—your father—for six years."

When hearing her feelings put into words, Arielle shrugged. "She's not exactly a motherly type, and never was. Harris and I are pretty self-sufficient anyway. The girl's thirty for crying out loud, anyway! Young enough to be our sister." Gabriella cringed and looked away.

"Have you had a good experience with your father, though?" she asked, sincerely curious. _An experience you should have with two parents_.

"Yeah, I mean, it's okay. It's not like we bond or anything, but he's a good dad," Arielle said softly. She blinked and looked up, realizing something. "I think he gets embarrassed sometimes, like when I was eleven, and we were visiting Grandma Lillian and Grandpa Jack in Albuquerque, and I got my period for the first time. I told Grandma—Cassandra wasn't even there anyway—but she ended up blabbing it to Grandpa and my dad even though I didn't want her to. While Dad practically passed out on the couch, Grandpa told me it was okay that bodies go through changes, and then explained to me what a colonoscopy was." She closed her eyes.

A laugh escaped Gabriella's lips; chuckling was all she could do. "That sounds like Jack," she said with a grin. "But T-Troy?" Her voice shook with his name. "He's okay, right?"

Heart beating, Arielle nodded slowly. She wondered if the shakiness was a good thing. "He's all right. I think he misses basketball. Art's kind of weird for him. He likes it, but he's not… Loving it. I think he wishes he was in the NBA."

Hah, so did I, Gabriella thought flatly. She clasped her hands and shut one eye, then the other. "What are you doing?" Arielle asked.

"Reminiscing," was the reply.

It would be later that a silent agreement would state no questions about the past, no references to a reunion including the two exes, and no unnecessary revelations. And it would be later that Gabriella would almost regret this silent agreement, because she was itching to scream truth, truth, truth, and it would be later that Arielle would almost regret not standing up to this silent agreement, because she was itching to scream her thoughts, thoughts, thoughts.

And it would be simply _eventually_ when Troy Bolton would tie into the crazy mix of it all, breaking the wrongful hush of no words.

**TYWY**

"So, how much money have you spent on this one event?" Ryan asked his sister when the reunion was finally over. Everyone except Troy had left, and now he was in the hallway, calling the children again on the rare chance they would pick up.

Sharpay looked thoughtful. "About as much as someone's down payment on the Empire State Building would be," she replied, and burst out laughing at the incredulity on her brother's face. "Oh, like it matters. I would have spent it on Milan's whiny-ass little niece and nephew anyway, and they sure as hell don't deserve anything else."

The doubt wasn't washed from Ryan's blessed features. "I am still in shock over your care for this," he said, concerned. "I mean you never spend so much money on other people, only yourself. And to go all out for _Troy Bolton_ has me worried—"

"Do I have to _shove_ my engagement ring down your throat?" Sharpay said brusquely, crossing her arms over her chest. "I am not into him like that anymore, so let it go. And the money issue _so_ isn't an issue, it's not like I offered to pay for their ticket back home. That's where they get stuck in NY and I laugh at their misfortune." She grinned devilishly and Ryan tilted his head back with a groan. "Why are you complaining? You scored a de rigueur hottie."

"Not so much. He was interested but his hands were calloused and a very important requirement I have in a guy is that he owns some Lubriderm," he said firmly, shrugging slightly before getting his own wicked grin. "And not just for his hands."

The champagne she had been drinking dribbled down her chin as she choked and gasped for a moment. "Ew, Ryan, if there's ever been a TMI moment between us it was just now," Sharpay squeaked, face gray despite her Bare Minerals foundation. "Please excuse me while I go throw up all over that waiter we've been bugging all day, I think he is entitled to a good puking."

"I wonder if you could puke on the bartender, too, maybe the vomit would soften—"

"You're disgusting, Ryan."

"You're old, Sharpay."

She paused. "Fine, truce."

He smiled victoriously and nodded. "Now go, puke. Preferably somewhere where I can't see you. You're not a very attractive hurler."

"WE CALLED TRUCE."

**TYWY**

Harris hated his sister as he unpacked their clothes from their duffle bags and stuffed them in their respective drawers of the bedroom he had located. He hated her with a passion, but he wasn't exactly sure why. He just knew he loathed her.

Honestly, he knew why. She had led them to Gabriella, and he knew they wouldn't be together forever. The story would be too good to be true, or there would be a change or heart, or something else bad—God only knew—would happen. Their luck didn't stay for that long, and the fact that April had known where to go from Boston was a rare stroke of good fortune by itself. A happy ending would cost too much their asking price, and he knew this. He knew Arielle knew it. And Harris knew, amongst everything, that while they were aware of it, they wouldn't do anything about it. Just for the hope that maybe some other happy ending would come along.


	12. Unfamiliarity

A/N: I know, I know, I totally didn't keep my update promise. But, if it's a valid excuse, I was busy writing a superiorly lengthy oneshot for Chloe (chloeroo) that I had been meaning to write for a very long time. So, with that said, hopefully people have stuck around since the eleventh chapter. :) -love- Desireé

Chapter Twelve, Unfamiliarity

_I'm quiet, you know_

_You make a first impression_

_But I've found I'm scared to know I'm always on your mind_

_Even the best fall down sometime_

_Even the stars refuse to shine_

_Out of the back you fall in time_

_I somehow find, you and I—collide_

_-'Collide', Howie Day_

Most marriages are due to something other than a rare component of life that the human race has come to deem as 'love'. They are usually because of the desire for security, the woes of finances, the notion of glamour, or the curt revelation of a baby. The last option was the case between Christian Montez and Theresa Rule, when they found themselves preparing to become the hardest jobs in the world—father and mother. The swell upon Theresa's stomach, the flaming red in Christian's face, the anger coming both families were all proof of their immaturity, their ill-judgment on the usefulness of birth control when really, what were the chances? It was March when she gave birth to a girl, Gabriella Anna, at the age of twenty-three, not much older than the only child when _she_ would later have Harris.

Like mother, like daughter. No matter how softly or how proudly someone said the phrase, it was the _sound_ of a connection between Theresa and herself that Gabriella cringe every time she heard it. And because of the way her father walked out abruptly when she was only two years old, because of the way he randomly dropped in on her ninth birthday party eager for custody rights when his ex-wife deserved every bit of the daughter, because of the way he, upon her high school graduation, sent a 'Sorry I missed you' card that really meant 'Sorry I missed you but I don't really give a crap about your valedictorian speech', Gabriella also had very little faith in the system of marriage.

Not to say she didn't want her relationship with Troy Bolton to work. No, no, no, that wasn't it at all. In fact, if anything, she wanted it to _trounce_ any ideas her parents had of holy matrimony. She wanted so badly to tie the knot with Troy, have a bundle of kids, buy a white-picket-fence house with blue shutter windows, and write forever, to prove to her parents—wherever they were—that people have happy endings. But that word 'want' seemed to keep getting in the way, especially when she thought about the 'need'. I _want_ to be loved. I _need_ to be loved. Really, though, there isn't much of a difference.

**TYWY**

Jack and Lillian Bolton got married on Valentine's Day. It was a cliché although sweet ceremony, with red rose petals and pink carnations and little decorations of the Sweethearts that had messages written on them, customized with 'J and L Forever' printed on the little pastel candies. Their wedding song was a Barry White hit, respective members of the wedding party exquisitely presented their speeches and toasts, and the limo that drove them to their hotel room was stocked with alcohol and a divine-smeller air freshener. The wedding was _perfect_.

Their daughter, April, was a little less moral-oriented and more have-fun-and-don't-regret-anything, but it was their son Troy that believed when you found the one you wanted to be with forever, everything else would fall into place. Of course, this wasn't true, but he had nothing else to back him up when trying to convince the love of his life that they weren't wasting their time and that any mistakes could be fixed easily.

At one point, Troy thought the world consisted of two types of people: those who had a significant other, and those who did not. At the next point, he found himself sliding between categories, not sure where he wanted to be and if he should be trying to figure it out in the first place. Then it was finally that he realized the world had all sorts of people, and his type just wasn't readily compatible with Gabriella's. In spite of nature's plan, he still found his heart breaking when her absence ultimately set in those many years ago.

_The truth unfolds viscously, trying everyone's patience._

It was December the twenty-first when Gabriella abruptly realized she was housing two children without their father's knowledge, and that Christmas was approximately four days away. "Have you or Arielle talked to your dad?" she asked Harris when he woke up, sluggishly coming into the kitchen area of the apartment above the store. His bed head haircut, in spite of the black color and those Bolton blue eyes with a gaze similar to hers flickering beneath his bangs, reminded her a lot of Troy. "Since you've gotten here, I mean."

He poured some Honey Nut Cheerios and shrugged. "We've been doing phone tag, leaving messages and stuff, and I think Ari talked to Aunt April for a little while yesterday; she's playing along, too, every time he calls I don't know when the plan says to actually tell Dad we're _here_, though. I bet he wants to 'meet us in Boston', so to speak—in order to make sure we haven't forgotten about him. It's like he's got this phobia of growing out of touch with us. Parents never get it when the teenagers don't talk to them; it's not like we hate them, we just don't have anything to say." He glanced sideways at his mother, before staring back at the milk carton in his hand. The time he and his sister had spent in Sampson was mostly quiet; anyone who spoke was usually Arielle with more questions.

Ginny the cat purred as she hopped on the counter and batted her tail against Harris' arm. Gabriella cleared her throat and tried not to pay any attention to his last comment. "Well, what do we do when Christmas Eve comes?" she asked hesitantly, drumming her fingers on her knee. "I think he'd want to be around here for _that_."

A shameful smile crept onto Harris' face, showing he was clearly amused by a statement she assumed was fairly reasonable. "Dad's kind of distracted," he said, turning so he leaned against the cupboard and nursed his cereal bowl. "Not even kind of—he's _really_ distracted. So I'm sure it won't be until a little sidewalk Santa asked him for some spare change that he'll realize his kids aren't around for the holidays. I think, according to April, we're supposed to be back on the twenty-third."

The telephone sat in front of Gabriella, tempting her. _Dial his number_. "Well," she said softly, "I think you should call him." She picked up the cordless and held her arm forward.

Harris laughed, before seeing her serious expression. His eyes widened and he set his cereal down, even though the Cheerios would very well get soggy and he—like his father—hated mushy foods. "No, no, I can't call him," he protested, "I'll _ruin_ it. I'll suddenly blurt out where we are and then Arielle will kill me because she keeps letting on to the fact that she's got some 'plan' to tell Dad we're actually in… Sampson. And not Boston."

Silence filled the space where Gabriella's motherly response should have been: I'm the mom, and I am telling you to call your father. She stared at the table, and Harris ran his fingers along Ginny's spine while she lapped up milk from his bowl happily. Another minute passed before Arielle appeared, sleepy and verbose as always. "Good morning," she said in a singsong voice. "I can't believe only ten more days until the new year. These last few months have gone by so fast, and—and—and now we're here." She smiled at her brother, who grimaced. "What?"

"I think you should call your father, Arielle," Gabriella told her, voice quiet as she pushed the phone in the girl's direction. "Harris told you haven't spoken to him at all, and April is covering for you guys when she doesn't even know what is going on down here."

The same initial reaction came from Arielle. "Call our _dad?_" she repeated incredulously, looking from her brother to Gabriella and back again. "That will be terrible! He's going to ask us a thousand questions, and I won't be able to answer all of them because well half of them will be about April and Boston and everything and all I'll be thinking about is Sampson!" She was breathing quickly, her chest rising and falling before Harris gripped her arm to calm her down.

"Well, maybe it'll be better that he finds out," the dark-haired woman suggested, curling her finger around the phone's antennae. "I mean, you'll have to tell him eventually and maybe just telling the truth will be the best option."

There was a long pause where both teenagers were gazing at the third party with such a solid stare that she writhed beneath the spotlight before Arielle eventually said, "Fine. I'll call him. I'll call the apartment phone. He can't be outside right now, he's much too introverted to be out this early on a random Tuesday morning in the middle of winter." Her fingers moved across the buttons, pressing in sync with the 'beeps'. She waited, two rings, three rings, four rings. _Maybe he won't answer_. Oh, damn it. He did. "Hi, Dad."

"Arielle!" He sounded so relieved, so happy to hear her voice, that she took back the tiniest part of her regret. Troy meant well as far as fathers went. "God, I feel like I haven't talked to you in a month! Where's Harris? What's up? Having fun with April? Are you guys ready to come back to New York?" The questions were boundless, much like her own for "Troyella's" past. Like _father_, like daughter.

She took another slow breath, before an odious grin dashed across her mouth and she answered her father brightly, "Well, actually, we're not in Boston anymore. No, no, Harris and I are fine. But we're visiting an old friend who I think you know. She's right here, yes, in this room, Daddy." Gabriella looked pale from her seat, although slightly impressed at the strange revenge this girl was exacting. "She wants to talk to you. Here."

Before she could say no, Gabriella found the phone practically glued to her cheek, and Arielle took a step back, smirking. Harris waited to see what would happen, trying to conceal his interest, or more lack thereof. Inside, he knew nothing could happen. His father was married; Gabriella had left him. And no matter how many fairy tale endings happened in the movies, their life wasn't one of them. Reality sucked most of the time.

"Hello?" the woman said softly, ready to faint on the spot. Her stomach was twisting into several knots, her heart was beating faster than she thought was normal for a healthy person of her age, and her palms grew sweaty. Just like when she first saw him at the snow lodge on New Year's Eve.

For a moment, it sounded as if he had hung up. Gabriella couldn't blame him. But finally he spoke, the quietest voice she had ever heard: "Who is this?" And he knew the answer. Of course he did. He just wanted to make sure.

"It's me." She cleared her throat and felt foolish all of the sudden. "It's Gabriella." _Click_. Yes, now he had hung up.

**TYWY**

Troy hadn't meant to end the call; actually, he had just dropped the phone and the battery had fallen out from the back. But as he relocated it in its rightful spot, as he pressed to cover back into place, his entire world was shaking like an earthquake was happening. _Gabriella_. It had been too long for her to call now, that's what he first thought. But she sounded just the same, just as beautiful, just as smart and endearing and lovely. That's what he really thought.

He couldn't call back; the number had come up as restricted. Well, obviously. Nothing ever happened perfectly in real life. So instead, he called his parents. "Honey?" Lillian Bolton answered. Then he realized it would be only five in the morning back in Albuquerque. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Mom," he said faintly. "Sorry I woke you up. Tell Dad hi. I'll call you guys later. Bye." Maybe Chad and Taylor.

But no, he got the voicemail that mentioned their chinchilla, Skittles. So next was Sharpay's penthouse. But the maid said she was out for the day. Troy didn't know Ryan's number, and quite frankly, he didn't like very many of his other friends. High school seemed to catch up with you even years after you graduate; senior year, even if everyone else was busy, Gabriella was there for him. And technically, she was now.

Something inside him, around where he imagined his heart would be, began to come back to life and it wasn't for the first time in his life that Troy Bolton was scared of what he didn't know already.


	13. Common Ground

A/N: Mmkay

A/N: Mmkay. Because I think the last chapter was lamely short and nothing really happened, I am updating today. :) So! Thirteenth chapter. Unlucky, ooh. -love- Desireé

Chapter Thirteen, Common Ground

_Do you really wanna know how I was dancing on the floor?_

_I was trying to phone you when I'm crawling out the door_

_I'm amazed at you, the things you say that you don't do_

_Why don't you wreck?_

_I was feeling lonely, feeling blue_

_Feeling like I needed you_

_Like I'm walking up, surrounded by me_

_A&E_

_-'A&E', Goldfrapp_

After replacing the battery, Troy found himself walking in circles around the apartment, holding the phone like it was a precious infant ready to explode with noise. He finally collapsed onto the couch and stared at the screen, willing it to light up and say 'Restricted' again like it had earlier. He wanted so desperately to hear Gabriella's voice again; he wanted to hear her tell him that it was all one big mistake and that she wanted to come home. But then Cassandra's face popped into his head and he sighed, head tilted back against the armrest. _Remember you hot model wife, Mr. Bolton? She's due back tomorrow morning, in case you forgot_.

Suddenly the phone's ring tone—the fruit sounding one that he made a mental note to change—filled the room after what had certainly been somewhere between four and five hours of pacing; he saw the caller ID. Evans, Sharpay. She meant well, surely. She wasn't _trying_ to kill him with her constant phone calls and somewhat high-pitched squeals every time he picked up. No, she wanted to help. "Get dressed!" she commanded when he began the routine hello. "We're going out."

"What?" he asked, confused as he sat up. "Sharpay, I'm married, you know, and you're engaged to _Milan_—" She interrupted him again with a faux yuk-yuk, and Troy smiled.

"I'm not talking about just you and me," she chided impatiently. "I'm talking about you, me, _and_ Milan. I can't imagine why you haven't met him, so I think it's time for a little man bonding. He's taking us to Charm, that new restaurant near the Plaza? I'm uberexcited; it's going to be amazing. The wine list is supposed to be a foot long, and the live band has played at celebrity weddings like Brad and Angie, and Nicole and Joel! Even on the East Coast, Hollywood comes in all shapes and sizes."

Unlike his catwalk prowler wife, famous names didn't impress Troy. "Sharpay, uh, _man bonding_ really sounds, er, great—but I'm not up for it today. Not to mention it's only two o'clock in the afternoon, Shar. Plus, I highly doubt Milan has a lot to offer me anyway; the guy's a designer-turned-model. It's like… Asking a Hummer enthusiast to bond with a global warming protester. We have _nothing_ in common."

Sharpay hmphed, her tone bleeding with scorn like she knew better. "Says you," she sneered, but he could tell she was curling her hair or putting on make up—something to keep her happy. "You haven't even met him, so you can't be quick to judge. Now, get a nice jacket on and maybe shave, you get that shabby street urchin look sometimes and it's not very attractive. We'll be there to pick you up in one hour, okay? We'll go out to Central Park or something and then go to an early dinner. Oh, I almost forgot, don't wear any blue, I'm planning on a yellow dress and the last thing I need to look like is the color wheel, it's a despicable format, actually—"

"ItalkedtoGabriella," he suddenly said, as if just realizing this major news would be of some use to Sharpay. She stopped, squeaked, and Troy repeated his words, nodded at his lap. She gasped and he flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Yeah. This morning."

There was a short pause before, "And you didn't even think to _tell_ me?"

He paused for a second, considering this. "Well, no," he said finally. "It wasn't actually a big conversation. I dropped the phone, and the battery fell out, and the number came up as restricted…" He trailed off, hearing his own lamentable story with some contempt.

She sighed and Troy heard what sounded like a hand being clapped to a forehead. Sharpay was still melodramatic Sharpay. "You, my friend, can be oh so lame," she said, and he mumbled a halfhearted response. "But that's what I'm here for. Milan is also a great therapist. Be ready in—actually, now ninety minutes, okay? I have to hear how you ended up talking to this woman that's been MIA for thirteen years." The line went dead and he pressed 'end', before staring at the screen again. Why the hell hadn't Arielle called back? Then he realized maybe, just maybe, Gabriella didn't _want_ to talk to him.

Thirteen years was a very long time and most anything could happen in a span of that long, however the teenager in him hoped she was just as miserable as he was. That way, they'd find at least one common ground among the sea of differences they couldn't seem to cross when they were younger.

**TYWY**

"He just _hung up_?" Arielle asked skeptically, taking a seat next to Gabriella and pushing the phone's cradle back and forth as if checking for loose parts inside. "This thing is defective; our father does not just end calls like that without saying goodbye or anything." Her heart dropped for a second as she thought, What if they really fell out of love? "Let's call him back," she said firmly, just as the dark-haired woman reached over to hold a hand over hers.

"No," she replied. "I don't want to interrupt his day, and I'm sure that very slight conversation was as much of a shock to him as it was to me." She added silently, _He sounds the same, like he's doing well. That isn't fair._

There was awkwardness in the room, tapping on their shoulders and reminding them in a manner as if to say, _Um, excuse me? You guys can't just weasel your way into a 'Leave It to Beaver' lifestyle. You have to suffer first_. Gabriella sank lower in her seat, trying to focus on the splinter sticking up from the table probably older than she was. Arielle thrummed her fingers atop her knee, begging God or anyone who was listening for a conversation to brew between the three of them and salvage their reunion. Harris came to the rescue: "Does Sampson have a park?"

His mother glanced at him. "It's probably ten degrees outside," she said, in a warning voice that hinted to her secret enthusiasm for a day trip. "We'd have to load on the clothing. Did you guys bring parkas?"

Neither of the teenagers answered at first, before Arielle offered, "Well, um, we have like trench coats. New York City usually has outdoor heating." She paused, before smiling. "Oh! But my coat, it's double-breasted and raspberry colored, and just the absolute _cutest_ accent to my hair, which is like almost white blond but still kind of dark like my dad's." Her face heated up when Harris whispered, "Rambler" and Gabriella burst out laughing.

"Well, it does play up my highlights!" the girl said indignantly, glaring down at her hands, promptly interesting. "Let's just go to the park."

And then they made a memory, one that should have come a long time ago. Gabriella pushed them on the swings; cleared the snow off the slide so they could skid to the bottom on their feet; laughed when Harris tried his hand at the monkey bars but then fell from the icy grip. Suddenly these two children, people who were strangers to her and vice versa, were components in her life, and it was a nice thought for once. Gabriella, the black sheep, wasn't alone now.

**TYWY**

The first thing you could think when you saw Milan Bauer-Cresson was probably: What. A. Ham. He wore a navy blue ensemble and matching silk tie (despite the obvious time of day and even though Troy remembered Sharpay had specifically asked him not to wear any of that color, due to her yellow attention-getter sack dress) and had curly jet-black hair, with eyes to match. His naturally straight teeth with their shocking white color hit Troy's glance and the artist flinched. "Nice to meet you," he said with a wince, shaking hands as Sharpay giggled and came up behind her fiancé.

"And you," Milan returned, voice surprisingly deep in spite of his slim build. He was wiry, like a gymnast, with protein muscle and long legs like a track star's. "My little Shar-Star has told me so much about you, I feel like I know you already."

_Cue fake-laugh_. Troy forced a smile and even managed a little ha-ha for good measure, which seemed to please, ahem, Shar-Star. "Can I get you guys anything while we're here?" he asked, motioning toward the kitchen, but the drama queen shook her head and ushered them to the elevator.

"We're not going to be late for this!" she instructed them, pressing the down button over and over. It reminded Troy of Arielle, whose restlessness always made him nervous. Sharpay finally slipped between the cool metal doors when the red light above them lit up, waiting anxiously for her other two dates that night to follow suit. "I spoke to Marielisa from the photo shoot last night, and she said Charm is to _die_ for. I am so happy I chose today to wear this." She pointed to her brick red chemise and Milan kissed her affirmatively. So much for yellow.

In the limo (a stretch, specifically ordered by the power couple), Sharpay poured herself some champagne and smiled at Troy next to her while Milan made a phone call. "Spumante?" she recommended, handing a glass out to him. He took it and studied the liquid carefully, as if looking for hints of poison. She giggle-scoffed, before taking the drink and sipping it pleasantly. After a few seconds, "_Voila_. It's not contaminated, Bolton. My evil streak died out some time in college. And yes, it is two o'clock in the afternoon. But the bubbly stuff is just too good to resist, so who could blame us? Or me, for that matter."

He shrugged and took the drink from her, taking a swallow before making a very disagreeable face. "Wow," was all he could achieve without any more discomfort showing up in his body language. Sharpay laughed and her shoulders went up slightly, collarbone dipping in toward her neck.

"Some people don't like it at first," she said apathetically. She stole a glimpse of Milan, still politely turned away on his cell phone, before looking at Troy. "So. What happened?"

He stared at her for a moment. "What happened with what?"

She rolled her eyes, silently saying _Duh, half-wit_. "With Gabriella," she supplied, and seeing him still frown made her add bluntly, "Over the _phone!_"

"Oh." The blood began to rush to his head again and he sniffed, involuntarily sucking in a whiff of the white wine. Troy coughed for a moment, clearing his throat and trying to catch his breath. "Well, Arielle called. And I hadn't talked to her in a while. We just kept leaving phone messages and I had talked to—" He stopped, and then glared moodily at the speakers across from them. "April."

The limo lurched to a stop and the noise level grew outside. They had arrived at Central Park. "Your sister?" Sharpay asked, consuming the rest of her beverage heartily. "What about her?"

"She was in on this," he groaned, fishing for his cell phone in his pocket. "God, I've talked to her like a thousand times, and she didn't even bother to tell me." Before he could dial the Boston number, Sharpay stopped him with a resolute grasp over his fingers.

"Uh-uh, not right now. You need to have _fun_, just forgot about these troubles and dance for a little while! If Gabriella's anything like I remember, then the kids are in good hands. You don't always have to be the responsible adult, Troy, sometimes that's what the nanny is for." She tugged on his hand as they slipped outside, obscured by the dim street lighting and one of her mandatory bodyguards. He laughed as they walked inside.

"Gee, Shar, you're going to make a great mother one day."

"Puh-lease, my kids are going to be famous before they even make it to the delivery room." Inside, the music began, and thoughts of Arielle, Harris, and a woman he knew named Gabriella began to drift to the back of his mind like distant fog, bound to return after the recent weather forecasts predicting mostly sunshine with the _slight_ chance of rain—or in this case, his past.

**TYWY**

The wind picked up and Arielle shivered as she sat up, twisting her body slightly so she could observe her attempt at making a snow angel. Beside her, Harris was staring up at the sky, and beyond him, Gabriella was doing yoga poses—even though she had never taken yoga in her life. "Did you love our dad?" the blond girl asked. Her voice was nervous, unconfident; she had broken the rule, the unwritten guideline that required no conversations mentioning the past.

Gabriella stopped doing what she thought could be called 'turtle' and glanced at the child, thirteen and curious and unbelievably nosy. Then, she glanced at the dark-haired boy, and he returned the favor from the corner of his eye. His face read an apology, and she nodded slightly. "Yes, I did," she finally said quietly, contemplating whether to elaborate or wait for more questions. There were so many details, so many additions to the story that would have enlightened the entire world.

But there were no more inquiries. It seemed this answer, although it didn't explain anything at all, was enough satisfaction for Arielle, who stood up and began walking back in the direction of the shop. Harris watched her for a second, sighing sadly. "I think she wants everything to be normal—for everything to suddenly turn around like in the movies. She wants to make the happy ending come true, to save the day and be responsible for the satisfying outcome," he explained. "But I think you know the ending to this, and it's not the cinematic one Ari was hoping for."

"I bet you got your intelligence from your mom's side," she said, smiling slightly. He smiled back and she reached over to rest her forehead on his shoulder, wishing she didn't feel like she was embracing a stranger.


	14. Sorry

A/N: I was going to update quite a while ago, Sunday, I believe. But then I got busy, and then I realized I should rewrite the chapter because I really think the last chapter was boring, too, so this one is now jam-packed with major soap opera-ness. Or something like it, maybe. Not exactly. I think the next chapter is more like that, and that's already written so, yes. :) -love- Desireé

Chapter Fourteen, Sorry

_I'd take another chance, take a fall_

_Take a shot for you_

_And I need you like a heart needs a beat_

_But it's nothing new_

_I loved you with a fire red—_

_Now it's turning blue, and you say..._

_"Sorry" like the angel heaven let me think was you_

_-'Apologize', OneRepublic_

Central Park looked much like a Winter Wonderland, prospering with snow and tourists and big business like street vendors and bicycle taxis. "Let's take a ride on the horse carriage!" Sharpay squealed, linking one arm with Milan and her other with Troy. The third party struggled to keep up; he seemed distracted and a little less than enthusiastic about the premeditated man bonding. She turned to him while her fiancé spoke to the carriage owner about ticket prices and said, "Are you _trying_ to dampen our moods? Come on, you're supposed to be all cheered up now because you're with me."

He didn't smile, which she took as a bad sign. In fact, he looked relatively dismal, his eyes half-mast and his mouth turned down. She pressed her fingers to the corners of his lips and received no counteraction. "Honey, what's wrong?" she finally asked, hesitant. Advice was _not_ her thing, but this wasn't the Troy Bolton she knew and—in a completely friendly, not-trying-to-steal-your-boyfriend way (as Ryan so frankly put it)—loved.

"It's not fair," he said after a while, voice searing with anger; he glared at the carriage wheel as if willing it to break in terror of his hard gaze. She waited patiently for some addition to his words, her hands clasped and feet flat on the ground. Troy continued, "It's not fucking fair that they got to fucking see her before I do. Harris doesn't even _care_ about her and Arielle _thinks_ she can make things happen when really they're absolutely impossible to do and I'm the only one who knows the _real_ Gabriella and for them to get to see her first—" he clenched his fists, "—isn't fair."

For a few seconds, Sharpay was quiet with the exception of her bracelets clanging against one another when she moved her arms. She was picturing Cassandra, who was not only a colleague but also a friend; and as opposite as she was from any other girl Troy had dated, Sharpay knew the model would be heartbroken to hear her husband now. After a moment she hugged him, in that abrupt throw-yourself-around-him-and-don't-let-go type of way, but just as friends (as Ryan's aura haunted her for the second time). "I'm really, really sorry, Troy," she whispered into his ear, resting her chin on the crook between his shoulder and neck. He didn't do anything at first, before she felt the hug being returned. "I know it's not fair, and it sucks, and sometimes life sucks, especially when you're down and someone's still kicking. But you've still got friends, you know?"

Sometimes a reminder that you are loved is all that is needed to mend some fresh wounds.

**TYWY**

At the shop, Arielle took a minute to catch her breath before grabbing her cell phone and speed-dialing her dad. He picked up on the second ring, growling, "Where. The. Fuck. Are. You." It wasn't even a question anymore, and she couldn't really condemn him for it. Since he swore, she decided to choose he words carefully.

"Daddy, I'm with Gabriella," she began slowly, hearing him suck in his breath, "but don't worry, I'm _fine_ and so is Harris. She's really nice, and we just went to the park and this morning she thought you hung up on her and I think that's terrible of you to do because you haven't spoken to her in years and to not even say goodbye is awful and—"

"Arielle," he interrupted her. Milan beckoned for them to board the carriage, and Troy realized this wasn't a conversation to be having when man bonding—or with anyone else at all, for that matter. "Look, I have to go. But I'm going to call you back in an hour so _pick up your phone_. Don't screen my calls, because I know you have been lately, and this is not a happy-go-lucky situation." He paused. "Are you sure you're fine?"

She exhaled, gripping her cell phone. "Dad, I'm sure."

The carriage driver flicked the reins and the horses began trotting. Sharpay sat next to Milan, leaning into him and giggling; across from them was Troy, and he was trying not to intervene on their affectionate moments. "Okay," he mumbled, trying to imagine Arielle at the moment. Where were they? And how the hell did they find Gabriella? Was she married like he was? Was she as _unhappy_ as he was? "I love you, but don't forget I'm kind of pissed off right now."

"I won't," she said softly. "I love you, too. Bye Dad." She sighed and hung up, cradling the mobile in her hand for a moment. Suddenly she wasn't so little, so young; she was older, stronger, now in a place she had once thought to be fictional. _A second home_, she said silently. It would kill Troy to hear that, but she bashfully smiled in spite of it.

The front door opened and Gabriella and Harris walked through, both dusted with snow. "It's _freezing_," her brother declared, teeth chattering and arms wrapped around his upper torso in an effort to stay warm. "I'm going to take a shower." And then the girls were alone.

"I called my dad," Arielle said, staring at the woman. "He was busy though, so he's going to call me back later. I figure he'll lecture me for a while, until maybe…" She swallowed. "Until maybe he asks about you."

Gabriella titled her head to one side, long black hair spilling down her shoulder like a waterfall, dirtied with pollution (or, technically, emotional turmoil). "He's married, you know. He's got another girl in his life, Arielle," she let on gently, trying to word this very tricky situation heedfully. "Well, you're his number one girl, I know that much. But Cassandra is his _wife_; it doesn't matter how much you wish it wasn't true, but that's one thing she has over me. Troy and I never got married."

The question "Why not?" obviously itched to pour from Arielle's mouth, but the girl pursed her lips. She waited for a moment, before saying, "But he's unhappy. Cassandra is just so, well, _blech_. And he insists he loves her, yadda yadda yadda, but I know he doesn't really mean it and he's thinking about you of course because I'm always talking about you and—"

"Wait," Gabriella interjected. She sighed slightly and said with a firm tone, "Let's just go upstairs and I'll fix us something to eat, okay? No more talk about Cassandra, or your father. Not until we have to."

This rule, although silly and unreasonable in the eyes of a thirteen-year-old, was accepted and both of them trudged upstairs, weighed down by the thought of _What-If_. When they reached the second landing, Arielle turned suddenly and flung her arms around Gabriella's middle, quivering against her stomach and silently begging for some shelter in this big, cold world that didn't care whether or not you were ready to grow up. "I just want to have a mom, someone who loves me and wants to be there for me whenever she can and who thinks I'm beautiful," the girl said shakily, her voice stifled as she pressed her mouth against Gabriella's jacket. The woman who embraced her thought with a sad sigh, _You do_.

…

By the end of the night, Troy had not taken more than one sip from his drink and had very little to eat in spite of the mountain of tortellini Lisa the Waiter had presented him upon their mealtime. Milan had been busied with three or four phone calls, dragging him away from the table and giving Sharpay enough time to attempt to raise her friend's spirits. By the fifth time her fiancé patiently excused himself to the men's lounge of the restaurant, she threw up her hands in defeat and said, "You want to go home, don't you?"

Troy didn't try to hide his eagerness. "That would be nice," he said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck tiredly.

"So did you have _any_ fun tonight?" she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"The wine," he decided after a moment, "was good enough."

She shrugged with a small smile. "Beggars can't be choosers." Lisa the Waiter stopped by to see if they needed anything, and Sharpay shook her head dismissively. She brightened a moment and then giggled, "Do you remember when we drank beer in high school? Budweiser and Heineken?"

He looked up at the ceiling lamp above them, studied the stain glass panels before nodding with a smile. "Yeah, Chad's parents always had the most alcohol so we always went to the Danforths."

"And now we're drinking Chardonnay and Pinot Blanc!" she exclaimed, lifting her glass to clink his. He rolled his eyes, still smiling, and Sharpay scoffed, "Well, _I_ would think someone would be happy to hear they've stepped up from beer to wine."

"Well, thank you, I'm flattered you care so much about me," he said, holding his hand to his heart. Sharpay reached across the table and swatted his arm. Troy winked, and they were teenagers again, except the difference was she had black hair, dark eyes, and a smile that made any stain glass ceiling lamp jealous.

**TYWY**

Regina Spektor's voice awakened Arielle from her daydream some time around seven o'clock, and she saw her father's name on the cell phone screen. "Hello?" she answered hesitantly.

"Ari," he breathed, sounding relieved to hear her voice for the second time. "It's me. Dad. H-how are you?"

"I'm good," she whispered. For a moment, there was silence, before: "Listen, Dad, I really am sorry we went behind your back to come down here. But I _know_ you would have said no in the first place, and April was really a big help, I was pressing my luck asking her but she came down here with us and it turns out Gabriella is still here—"

He exhaled, like he was overly fascinated with oxygen's wonders. "Where?" The question was abrupt, almost imagined, until he asked it again. "Where are you, Ari?"

"Daddy." He closed his eyes to hear that term of endearment, something she used either when trying to get out of trouble or in order to get something she wanted. But this time, he heard sincerity, genuine tenderness that he was learning (the hard way) faded over time. Arielle could return to her childhood self once in a while. "Daddy, I like it here. And if I tell you, I know you'll want to come down, but just to bring us back. And I don't want to do that yet."

_Patience_. He cleared his throat and took one patient gulp of air. "Well, fine. I can understand that, I guess," he said through clenched teeth, trying to conceal his discontent. "But, can you just—can you put Gabriella on the phone? Please?"

She blinked, staring at the wall across from her. Dad wanted to talk with Gabriella. _He wanted to talk to the woman that was _supposed_ to be her mother_. "Really? Well, yeah, sure. I'll go get her. Just, just wait a second, okay?" she agreed, leaping off her bed and running out into the living room. She saw her brother sitting on the couch, reading a political magazine while the older woman next to him was writing something meticulously on a pad of paper. "Dad!" They both looked up in alarm to see her. "Our dad! He's on the phone—and he w-wants to talk to you!"

When you spend endless days imagining what you would say to a celebrity upon the chance of your meeting, eventually you decide you're ready for anything when that coincidental day comes where they stand in front of you at the market, or they happen to pick up the last copy of a book you had been eyeing at Borders. Most of the time, though, you're too star-struck to speak properly and everything you've planned to say gets erased from your mind. Similarly, Gabriella had spent thirteen years deciding what to say to Troy if—or when—they met again in that awkward, you'd-rather-be-somewhere-else way. And now, as Arielle extended her arm anxiously to hand her the phone, she couldn't think of one thing. Only_ I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry_.

"Hi," he spoke first, apprehensive.

"Hello," she spoke second, equally afraid of what they—what else? —didn't know already.

"I need to come get them," he began, "don't I?"

Did he? Gabriella couldn't tell. She liked them; they had only been here for twenty-four hours, but somehow they seemed to make her happier, lighter. She didn't want them to leave. And she especially didn't want her first real conversation in thirteen years to be over this subject. "Oh, well, I think they're having fun here, it hasn't been very long since…" _They reminded me of my faults_, she finished in her head.

"Where are you?" he inquired finally, sounding restless.

"New Jersey," she said, almost automatically. Arielle, next to her, looked simultaneously distressed and defeated. Gabriella pursed her lips. "Sampson. It's a small town."

"Will it come up on MapQuest?" He forced a laugh and she doubled the manner.

"Um, I don't know. But we're here. And I think you'd want your kids for Christmas," she replied.

He felt his heart twinge as she said 'your' and not 'our'. "Cassandra comes home tomorrow," he said vaguely, "so I'll drive down tomorrow afternoon. For the best, I don't want Ari and Harris to be any trouble just barging into your life."

_I don't have one_, she wanted to scream. _I don't have a life! I don't have anything left! I've ruined everything!_ "They're not trouble," she whispered, trying to remember the rules Sharpay had taught her in senior year on how to act around guys. Be cool, be calm. Don't cry, don't even whimper. But still, she felt her eyes sting as she said a little louder, "They're not trouble at all. But I think they miss you." Meaning: I miss you.


	15. Music

A/N: As I am checking this for grammar and spelling mistakes, I am watching the Academy Awards

A/N: As I am checking this for grammar and spelling mistakes, I am watching the Academy Awards. I am glad the strike was settled in time for the ceremony—maybe this will teach Hollywood a lesson when it comes to fair treatment of all people, especially the writers. :D Well, I'm only saying that out of solidarity, but whatever. Enjoy! -love- Desireé

P.S. Oh yeah, I am really absentminded… I've noticed I keep forgetting to insert the song lyrics in the chapter and, well, yeah. But they usually play up the chapter; therefore I'll always insert them later when I remember. :)

Chapter Fifteen, Music

_Hey there Delilah what's it like in New York City?_

_I'm a thousand miles away, but girl tonight you look so pretty_

_Yes you do_

_Times Square can't shine as bright as you_

_I swear it's true_

_-'Hey There Delilah,' Plain White T's_

As a child, everything is judged at a first glance; you have your little radar that detects who you like and dislike, what you want and how to get it. Something in the window shop, displayed so grandly and magnificently and teasingly that you immediately think you just _have_ to have it, could suddenly be not so spectacular and sublime after you take it out of the box and the pieces fall apart, already broken. Troy thought Cassandra Noel was pretty—_beautiful_, at times. Just not the one for him. And he had known this long before the moment where she sat in the window shop, staring back at him; however, he seemed to forget this idea when they said their vows on the twenty-fourth of April six year earlier.

"Honey!" the supermodel squealed, dropping her bags in the John F. Kennedy airport and running to meet her husband in a profound, somewhat surprising kiss. Troy stumbled backwards, but locked lips with her as happily as he could all the same, ignoring the paparazzi flashes that weren't as apparent as usual. He appreciated this. Being in the public eye wasn't his idea of fun, although Cassandra adored the limelight on any day. "Gosh, I've _missed you!_"

He smiled softly, before looking over her shoulder to nod hello at her parents conservatively. Mr. and Mrs. Noel looked solemn but nonetheless pleased to see their daughter so blithe. "I cannot _wait_ to show you my new tan," Cassandra purred seductively, not caring that her mother and father had front row seats to watch them canoodle. She ran her slipped a finger through one of his belt loops and grinned. "It's my Christmas present to you that I don't have any bikini lines—_anywhere_."

He nodded slightly, as if this was an appropriate answer to this pledge from a world-famous fashion symbol. "Let's go home," Cassandra said, waving to her father so he would pick up her bags. Mr. Noel looked irritated at the request, and also because Troy didn't jump up to help him with the luggage. Well, he was a crabby old man and maybe some good old manual labor would bend him back into shape.

In the car, Troy clutched the steering wheel so hard, his nails curled around to dig into his palms. "Sweetheart." Cassandra touched his arm and he jerked slightly. She raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right? You seem anxious."

"Never better," he reassured her, being completely honest. There hadn't been many times lately where he felt above what he did now—overwrought, angry, confused, homesick.

"Well, I can tell you're tense. Mama's going to fix it all when we get home, I promise," she added under her breath, glancing back at her parents, sleeping in their respective seats. "We had fun but I really missed you, Troy." She smiled coyly. "Did you miss me?"

The answer was no, and it always would be. Somehow, he found it in himself to wake up that morning and drive to the airport, but it took nearly everything to convince him not to turn around, pack up his things, and run away. It was the last part that got him to go get Cassandra; running away would stoop down to Gabriella's level. And he was _not_ going to do that. "Sure did," he finally told her, and she ignored the uncertainty lying evidently in his voice.

**TYWY**

After Mr. and Mrs. Noel took a taxicab to their home in Queens, Cassandra curled up along her husband's lap on the couch and kissed his chin flirtatiously. When he didn't say anything, she sighed. "Baby, you look so tired. What's wrong? Are you hungry? I can call Antonio to come here and he'll cook us a gourmet dinner and it'll be perfect; he makes _great_ linguini."

He shook his head quickly. "No, no, it's not that, I'm fine. But listen, Arielle and Harris…" His voice trailed off and he wondered how it would sound if he came out with the truth. _They snuck down to New Jersey, and now they're staying with the woman you replaced_. Okay, he definitely couldn't say that. _They're currently residing in a small Podunk town and the landlord just so happens to be Gabriella, you remember her? She left us thirteen years ago?_ That wasn't so hot sounding either. _The kids want to come home early from April's_. Well, that was obviously the best choice.

"I'm going to pick them up," he explained reluctantly. "You see, April got the flu and I don't want them to get sick for Christmas and neither does she so I'm going to pick them up. I'm really sorry to just run out on you—" Bad choice of words, he thought "—when you just got home, but I have to go get them. I'll just drive up to Boston and I'll be back tomorrow night."

Cassandra sat up, looking at him in the eye, slightly confused. "You're leaving?" she asked dubiously. He nodded, straight-faced, and she hummed for a moment. "Well, I'll go with you. Maybe they'll be happy to see me?"

_I think not_. "Um, no, it's really okay, honey; I'll only be gone for a day."

"What, you don't want to be with me?" she pouted.

He shook his head. "No, of course I want to be with you, but you're jet-lagged, I'm sure, and it's going to be a tough drive."

The windowpanes rattled at that moment from the storm outside and Cassandra smiled. "Well, fine. But maybe then you should take the train, because no car is going to get out of this weather safely. I'd feel a hundred times better about you going by yourself if you went via Metro."

It was a chilly December twenty-second; he calculated in his head that a train ride should only take an hour and a half or so. And Cassandra suddenly looked really hot in her Victoria's Secret panties and J. Crew tee. Maybe it was just the loyal spouse in him, but even so he told her that he didn't have to leave just that night, and she snickered before wrapping her arms around him and laying her lips on his.

_The next morning, an approximate two days before Christmas, Gabriella finds herself panicking._

"What's the hold-up?" she asked fretfully, tapping her fingernails on her knee as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Arielle and Harris sat on either side of her, looking straight ahead at the television—which was off. Gabriella had been pacing, worrying, demanding, and begging for the past sixty minutes; the reason was Troy. When he had called the night before, to tell his children he would take the train down the following morning, she went off on tangent about how this was bad, because the first thing would just be a delay and the next thing would be worse and so on. "Did he sound mad? Or anything at all?"

Both children sighed. Harris finally put a hand down on Gabriella's fingers, trying to silence her annoying habit, and shook his head. "Once again, _no_, he didn't sound mad. He said he was going to be busy all last night, so he'd take the nine o'clock train down this morning."

"It's nine forty-six," Gabriella said, looking at her watch. "He'll be here in an hour and fourteen minutes! Oh my God! He's going to… _Be_. _Here_." She came to a silent stop and looked at both of the teenagers, red-faced and speechless. "Um, you know what, I'm going to go grocery shopping, okay? We're completely out of eggs, and milk, and cheese, and basically living-essential items. I shouldn't be gone very long; will you be fine on your own? Yes, well, okay, I'll be back." She hurriedly stood up and quickened her steps when she got to the top of the stairs. The front door opened, closed, and Harris burst out laughing.

"She's acting like such an anxiety-themed basket case," he said with a grin.

Arielle rose slowly and frowned. "I hate that she's being like this."

"Why? I thought this was 'part of your plan'; you know, get the whole gang back together. Or whatever."

"Because, if slash when I tell her she's getting all freaky-oh-em-gee-Troy's-coming-here, she'll deny it and wave it off as PMS or something." Harris rolled his eyes and Arielle shrugged. "I just don't think she's fair to say that blah, blah, blah, her life with Dad is over, but then just go postal on us because he's coming down here."

Harris stood up alongside her and then began towards the staircase. "Maybe she's just worried if it's going to be awkward," he suggested over his shoulder as she followed him. "_I_ know it will be, but you know how adults try to make it seem like everything's always just fine and dandy. April says they live in denial over a lot of things, but mostly just because they want to avoid the topic of senility."

_Downstairs, Arielle and Harris are bored and eventually end up snooping in the backroom to find a gateway to the past._

"One day," the blond girl said as she stumbled around what she and Harris assumed to be the storage room, "I'll come back here and if it's still a piece of crap building, I'm going to drag some people from TLC so they can clean it up. It's a _mess_."

True, there was no stability whatsoever between items, whether they be boxes or bikes or stuffed animals. Harris was rummaging through one of the shelves against a wall, when he found something very peculiar and beckoned for Arielle to come see.

It was hard to believe she had kept it all once she left; after all, anyone who knew them would say she was ready to get out, desert him and everything they had together. But Gabriella, indeed, had preserved the so many keepsakes Troy had giver her; it was her one exception to the no-old-life rule. Oddly enough, she refused to speak to her own mother for fear of running into the subject of her absence, yet she managed to dedicate an entire box to all the things with his name—or love—etched into them somewhere. Pack rat would be an appropriate description for her.

Now, crouching before the cardboard crate Harris had accidentally discovered, Arielle's hands trembled, just as they had when she first discovered the photograph of Gabriella in Troy's closet. Her brother stood behind her, arms crossed over his chest as he watched curiously. The girl ran her fingers through her hair and blinked a few times. "This is it, Harris," she said softly, "This is their past, their _life_. The world I always wanted to see… But now I'm not so sure." It was a mystery as to why she was suddenly getting cold feet, but Arielle had that gut feeling that people got in the movies when they were about to get surprised. Or ambushed.

"You don't have a lot of time, Ari," Harris prompted her, his voice cooled. "Dad will be here in, like, half an hour. If you don't look now—I mean, if _we_ don't look now—then the chance may never come up again." The boy glanced over his shoulder; the door was still closed. Gabriella would come home from the market any minute. Inside him, his heartbeat pounded briskly, warning him, making him anticipate something perhaps unfortunate.

The box's lid felt funny beneath her fingers. Arielle grinded her teeth as she stared at the writing on top. Clearly inscribed was her father's name, with a thickly penned heart drawn around it. Gabriella had been honest; she did love him at one point. Sometimes that was difficult to remember. Finally pulling the cover off, a puff of dust hovered over the inside content, as if trying to hide the secrets up until the very last moment possible. The blond girl peered into the case, and felt her breath catch. Among many things, which included cards and yearbooks and God knows what else, there was a photograph she didn't recognize but immediately picked up. It was frameless, alone, and completely vulnerable by just being glossy paper but still it was magical, for the image of two parents, the brunet father grinning unevenly and the mother holding the black-haired baby with such tenderness. Jealousy, a vicious sin, stung Arielle's insides. She fell backward, her palms skidding the cold concrete floor. "They loved you," she whimpered, feeling more lost than ever before.

Confused, Harris leaned forward, and stopped when he saw the picture. For a moment, his mind was empty; he tried to speak words of reassurance, but it was useless. He had never seen a picture of himself as a young baby—Troy had gotten rid of any images pre-Gabriella. And now, looking at himself probably a good fourteen years earlier, the boy couldn't seem to say anything. Like Arielle, he had been unsure of what to expect from the box—love? A real mother? Memories all teenagers had that they didn't? Or, possibly something hurtful they would never want in the first place.

"What are you guys looking at?" Their bodies froze when they heard Gabriella's voice from behind. Slowly, Harris turned, as did Arielle, to meet her inquisitive glance. But they didn't have to answer; the woman looked past them and her eyes locked on the box. The box with the writing, _her_ writing. The box that held so many recollections she would rather have skipped over completely.

"It's got that picture of you guys," Arielle said weakly, "You three around the holidays; you and our dad and Harris. You guys were happy when you had him. You actually smiled a real smile with no sorrow or fakeness or anything. What's wrong now? What did we do? Why—" She hesitated. "Why weren't you happy with _me_?" Her azure blue eyes widened, and Gabriella forced herself to turn away in order to keep from believing she was staring at Troy.

Before Harris could do or say anything, his sister ran past him and he heard her feet clash with the steps as she stormed upstairs. "You guys had the real deal at one point," the teenager murmured, looking down at the ground. From the corner of his eye he saw Gabriella nod and squirm slightly, her beet red face still angled toward the box. He could see her thinking, wondering how she could have possibly ignored such a treasure trove for all these years. "Go on, take a look. You deserve some relief." There was a numbed moment of peace between them just as he added, "And I know we've only been here for a couple days, and we haven't even begun to repair the damage, but I'm being completely honest. You deserve every bit of it." He hesitated, before: "Mom."

She felt tears brimming on her eyelashes, but a grin simultaneously slipped across her face and she swallowed the boy into a hug. "I'm sorry for this… _shit_," she whispered, knowing it was her fault that she would never know what he was like as a baby, or how fast he grew up, or what grades he got in school, or what movies he loved as a child. It was all her fault. And so she said feebly, "Harris, I'm just so sorry."

Eyes ablaze just like she remembered Troy's to be, the teenager pressed his hand into her arm absently and replied, "Well, I know. And I'm sorry Arielle didn't get to see that first actual smile. She would have been happy to think sadness doesn't affect _everything_." Gabriella's lips twitched to grin again and she kissed his head before edging toward the box once more. Harris bowed his head. "It's all yours."

As she knelt before the box, she heard him leave the room. Might as well. She could be nearly certain that he wouldn't care to watch his mother find all her regrets for ever leaving his father. "Honestly," she sighed to herself as she picked up the picture Arielle had mentioned earlier. She could see the thumb impressions on the sides; when she first came to New Jersey, she had looked at that picture forever and ever. The girl had been right. She was happy with Harris; it would be a lie to say she was happy with Arielle, too.

The box held things like little gifts Troy would randomly buy her, for the sake of pocket money and economic freedom. She picked up a baseball cap that had belonged to him, but she always wore. Running her fingers along the brim, she lifted it to her nose, wondering if it still emitted a scent that at least could remind her of Troy. But there was nothing. Not one little hint of his sweaty body after he played basketball; not a whiff of his father's cologne she said she hated but secretly adored; not a single redolence of that regular person-smell she loved when she laid her head on his chest. And she missed this, more than she should have. _Cassandra and Troy, sittin' in a tree_.

There was a wooden nesting doll, and Gabriella lifted her out of the box to gently shake her. She could hear the 'chook-chook' inside, and smiled slightly. _That_ family stayed together, no matter what.

As she picked up one lavish trinket after the next, she couldn't believe she had ever found these things to be cute and endearing. More like foolish, she decided scornfully. And wasteful.

She was also beginning to worry about this lying compulsion.

Even if she was being untruthful with only herself, that could be harmful still, right?

"Troy," she said softly, spreading her arms over the box so she rested her chin on the edge closest to her. "You never failed to make me smile, yet now I'm grimacing, a-and—talking to myself. I'm _talking to myself_. Great."

Foolish. That could be said for both sides of this cold war.

**TYWY**

The stereo seemed to emit pain and anger, luxury and love. She rolled her fingers along the volume knob, hearing Paul McCartney's voice soothe her aching body and form tears again. _"Let's name him after one of the Beatles!"_

The room spun wildly as Troy felt his head whir and his legs melt. He had to hold his hand up against the doorframe to finally steady himself. The image of Gabriella Montez shot a bullet through his heart, and he felt the pain much longer than one would assume. Mouth dry and mind blank, he glanced around the room, trying to rationalize what song was playing. The Beatles, he knew that much. The lyrics said it all: _Falling, yes I am falling. And she keeps calling me back again_.

After thirteen years, Troy Bolton found he was still falling. And that scared him, out of anything and everything else, most of all.

"It's the CD you made me," Gabriella told him stiffly. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her face was twisted in a manner of disdain, standing next to the music player. "The one for my nineteenth birthday. I was three months pregnant then. There was a lot of good news on that day." He gaped at the stereo, the volume knob soon twisted to the left by Gabriella, silencing the opening lyrics to Dashboard Confessional's 'Stolen.' "I still have the case," she said softly, "With your message on the back." She picked up the plastic cover, and squinted at the writing. " It says, 'Brie—these songs describe what comes to my mind when I think of you. xo Troy.'" She couldn't help but smile. "Harris was right. I guess at one point we were in love. We had the music."

His heart cracked a little more. "I'm so sorry, but this is insane. I can't stay," Troy finally said, clearing his throat. "Where are they? We—we have to go. Oh shit, I'm so sorry they just barged in like this. They had no right; I should've found them sooner. They're going to be in so much trouble, they'll forget what fun is." These were the moments where he felt old, trying to keep his teetering life steady while his kids ran around, bumping their heads and scraping their knees like it was no big deal. It wasn't, anyway.

She shook her head, lips pressed together quickly. "No, I've enjoyed their company. It's a little lonely down here, and they're bright children. You're lucky."

Running his fingers through his hair, Troy looked at her. "You could have been, too," he said, his voice low and broken. "You could have been lucky, Gabriella."

Again, she shook her head. "We both know that isn't true, Troy, and for different reasons than most people could assume," Gabriella sighed and turned the music on again. Now it was 'Hey There Delilah'. "How are they? Do they like Cassandra?"

There was a shock in his face, as if he couldn't believe he was having this conversation with her. "I can't talk to you," he moaned, running his hand through his hair in a huff, "I have to go. Where are they? _Arielle! Harris!_" He turned and vanished into the other room, leaving Gabriella to stare down at the case. A list of the songs, all meaningful in their own way, scribbled in Troy's handwriting.

He reappeared, unsettled as he pulled off his jacket. "God, it's hot in here," he said harshly, trying to hide his shameful chagrin as much as possible. They avoided eye contact before he finally grew impatient. "Gabriella, where are they?"

Dropping the case into the box, she looked up at him. For once, the brown color in her eyes didn't mix with the blue in his, and a wall was built between them. "I can't believe I've kept all this," she mused sadly, "It's amazing what keepsakes are still in here."

While there was a slight interest in his expression, Troy shrugged it off and repeated himself. "Gabriella, listen to me. I need to leave. _We_ need to leave. Where are Arielle and Harris? We can't stay here. They shouldn't even be here! This is a small New Jersey town! They're not—" He paused for a split second, and she could have sworn he looked at her to fill in the blank.

"Human?" she guessed, her eyebrows knitted in exasperation. "Troy, they're _teenagers_. They're young, they're ambitious. They're…" She drifted off for a moment, her voice in a weak whisper as she finished, "Us. They're just like us, Troy." Tears began to fall from her lashes. "I mean, Harris is a walking replica of me, and Arielle is your entire DNA blueprint. Please, don't take them away from me just yet—I can't bear to see that life leave again so quickly."

Eyes narrowed, Troy let out a low snarl of hatred. "_You_ left, Gabriella," he hissed, "_You_ left that life. It didn't leave you. And it's been waiting for the past thirteen years, hoping made you'd come back. Now that it's here, you cannot and _will_ not have it. We're leaving."

Behind them, Arielle materialized, red-faced and agitated. "Dad, we can't leave," she sniffed, and Harris came next to her. Their father's face changed a moment, thankful to see them. "This is our mother—we can be a family again. Isn't that good? All this time I wanted to know, and now we're here. We have to make a big effort, I know, but it'll be worth it." She arranged a smile, and Troy went back to glaring at Gabriella.

"You haven't told her?" he growled, his rage rising like a high tide. "Jesus, Gabriella, she's been here a week and you haven't _told her?_"

The blond girl leaned toward the conversation. "Told me what?" she asked, her hands pressed together, her fingertips to her mouth.

The adults ignored this inquiry. Gabriella wiped her face again, trying to keep the tears from staining her cheeks. "You can't be mad at me," she retorted crossly, "You've had _thirteen years_ to tell her, I've had three days. There's quite a big difference there."

He frowned. "But I didn't need to tell her, Brie," he said, his voice cracking on the return of the nickname. "Cassandra was fine. Ari didn't need to have any more complications than she already did. Maybe one day, if she asked, I'd get on with it and tell her, but I never had the responsibility to speak the truth, because it would have only made things worse, not better. I never felt or _knew_ I had the obligation to let her know."

"Let me know what?" Arielle said again, her voice loud over the bickering of the adults. She turned to Harris. "What are they talking about? Do you have _any_ idea what's going on?"

Now the argument had turned over to the matter of leaving, again. Gabriella seemed to tremble as she protested the children's happiness as wells as hers, and Troy retaliated with an angry father tone of voice. "You are _not_ their mother," he spat, "And you never will be. You can't dare tell me how to parent these two children when you have no experience yourself. Do you know how much it hurt to find that damn note, Gabriella? How difficult it was to read the words 'independence' and 'burden' written in the same sentence with my name? And you just had the most unemotional phrases in the world! Not one sentence hinted remorse, guilt, _anything_. You were so damn serious when you wrote that."

She glowered. "_Don't_ reprimand what I've done in the past, Troy," she snapped. "That note poured every freaking emotion left in me, so I don't see why you had trouble reading that. These barren thirteen years have left me no room for sentiment, yet I have cared for these two beautiful teenagers for the past few days, and all the while _every_ part of me has regretted ever leaving. But at the same time, I can't say I'm sorry for packing my bags, I just cannot. There's never been a more certain time in my life where I felt I could breathe again. You'll never understand the fact that I was suffocating in New York—it would be my every wish to have you able to empathize, but you can't."

Fists clenched, Troy leaned against the wall. "So I was _smothering_ you?" he asked, the blue in his eyes turning a frightening gray. The children were beginning to worry about the choler boiling on their father's face.

"No," replied Gabriella patiently, although she was getting livid as well. "No, you were never smothering me, Troy. I was… I was smothering myself." Now the tears were coming freely, like always. "But to see these children, beautiful and tall and insanely wonderful, after so many years of loneliness, I can't bear to see them leave so soon. You can't just take them back—"

The teenagers both exchanged timid glances. Troy scoffed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Yes, I can, Gabriella," he chastised in a firm but quiet voice unlike before. "I may never understand the fact that you were suffocating in the city, but you'll never understand the fact that I am still their father, through and through, regardless of where _you_ stand in their lives. And I am taking them home."

"Dad!" both Arielle and Harris demurred in unison. The brother picked up, "We can't leave, Dad, not yet. We've gotten this new perspective, this new approach and feeling here! We're—we're happy, Dad." He looked at the man with a begging countenance, and Troy sighed.

"It's not worth it, guys. In two days, it'll be Christmas. Cassandra is at home, waiting and tolerating this stupidity. We're going, and that's final. Come on, get your bags, I'm taking you guys back home."

"With what right?" Gabriella cried, her eyes widened with horror. "Troy, can't you hear your children? Can't you hear me? I'm in no way apologizing for what I've done—but I'm apologizing for who my actions _affected_ and how they did. Please, listen to me. Can't you—can't you stay?" Gabriella inhaled and exhaled slowly, her eyes shining with tears. "I don't know exactly what it is I'm asking, but I want, I _need_ you to stay."

Desperation haunted his mind. He was going back in time, through the many years spent with Cassandra and his agent and all the newer people in his life. The months rewound before he was finally the nineteen-year-old in love with a girl who was carrying his child. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. They were, at this moment, happy. But here, in the present, he could only shake off the thought and frown sadly at her. "Gabriella, we can't stay," he said hoarsely.

She took another sharp breath, and Arielle burst similarly into tears, her eyes ablaze with hurt. "I don't want to go back!" she screamed. "I hate Cassandra, Dad! I hate her! I don't want to go back!"

"Dad, _neither_ of us don't want to go back," Harris said pleadingly. "We have no friends in New York. But the people here are nice, and welcoming, and have more things on their mind other than money and looks. It's so _different_ from New York. Sampson is so much deeper, so much more alive and well than the city. At home, everyone's dead, dying, or ready to start killing themselves—why don't you see that we can get away from that here?" He shifted uncomfortably under the pressure of a fight, wishing it were nine forty-six again.

Body rigid, Arielle looked at her father with a frustration only a new teenager could have. "I know you're blind for the most part about _anything_ going on with us, Cassandra always did her job to make you forget about what we thought, but maybe for once you can just stop and _listen_." Hands on her hips, she cocked her head to one side and glanced at both adults, eyes misty. "I know this is awkward, painful, maybe even a waste of time, but can't you come to terms with the fact that I've finally done it? I've brought this broken family together! I've tied loose ends, I've sewed ripped seams!"

Heart cracking for the final time, Troy looked at Gabriella. "You have to tell her," he said quietly. "She wouldn't believe me if I tried. But she has to know."

As the girl finally settled down, the older woman came to stand before her, sniffling over and over uncontrollably. "Arielle, listen to me," Gabriella said with a gentle but unsure voice, placing her hands on her shoulders "Please, I know this is hard to hear, but I need you to just listen to me. I'm… I'm not your mother. Just Harris'—but not yours." And at that moment, while her father and brother watched and the woman she thought had been her heroine dithered with a fractured soul, the hope that had lain in the blond girl's eyes for her entire thirteen years of life burnt away to a vacant stare that would break the heart of any passerby.

A/N: This is a confusing and very long chapter. I just wanted to get something published; it's currently 11:42 as I finish correcting everything. Excuse any other typos, I'm tired and… blah. Well. Please review! This is one of the turning points in the story. :) -love- Desireé


	16. Confessional

A/N: This is the first time I have actually had a very difficult experience with writer's block while doing this story. I'm really, really sorry this chapter was delayed, but the last few scenes took me the longest time to write. Well, enjoy! The next few chapters should appear consecutively over the next couple of days, I've gotten some strength back. Review? -love- Desireé

Chapter Sixteen, Confessional

_And maybe someday we will meet_

_And maybe talk and not just speak_

_Don't buy the promises 'cause_

_There are no promises I keep_

_-'Same Mistake', James Blunt_

**TYWY**

_"Please, I know this is hard to hear, but I need you to just listen to me. I'm… I'm not your mother. Just Harris'—but not yours."_

There are some things in life you wish you never said, because they make sense at first when they are tucked away in your head; but then, you utter their harsh significance in a bitter, awful way, and suddenly their danger is evident and you want nothing more than to take it all back. Gabriella stood up straightly after she spoke to Arielle, hesitant about what she had just revealed. Once in a while, she could think that being honest wasn't the best thing ever. Troy was immobile, as if his too-young-for-him-but-then-again-he's-Troy-Bolton sneakers were welded to the concrete-like floor, his face a shade of melancholy. Harris, beside his father, was immensely pale and for once took on a more Bolton appearance, as opposed to the Montez genes in him that he had just now realized were his and only his.

Later, when the happy endings had come and things would be better and the world wouldn't seem so capricious, Troy and Gabriella—once known as the populars, the mainstreams, the vogues— would remember this day as the time of a turning point. Later, they would realize it was the first experience they had together, as parents, as a mother and a father. She could feel the tension attempting to swallow her; he tried to speak but second-guessed himself. After a moment, Arielle asked softly, "You mean to say, all this time, I've been chasing someone else's dream?" Her voice was so eerily muted, like a pillow was being pressed into her face and cutting off her oxygen supply. Like she wanted to die.

A chill flew down her spine as Gabriella thought of this; she screwed up her face in agony, parted her lips. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to have you find out this way, and neither did your father. I didn't even _know _if you wanted to find out, but now you have, and it's really a terrible way to apprehend your fate," she said delicately, clasping her hands over her stomach. "You're so wonderful and smart and funny and lovely and these past few days I've began to understand what it's like to have a daughter, even thought we still barely know one another. You've proved to me how much these past thirteen years have been so empty, and it's made me miss the old things I had."

Now crying in silence, Arielle glared conspicuously at her father and the woman she had _thought_ was her mother. There was a long pause before she sneered to no one and everyone in the room, "Don't talk to me; don't read me the Riot Act; don't even try to fix things because they can't be fixed because you ruined them and now my life is over!" She turned away and, like a ghost, was gone. A door upstairs slammed obnoxiously; Harris, still transfixed in the corner, exhaled.

He glanced at both of the adults in the room. "Care to explain?" he inquired carefully, feeling the pulse in his wrists that screamed over and over with questions.

"Not exactly," Troy mumbled, shuffling his feet.

Gabriella narrowed her eyes and shoved him slightly, her hard curling around his arm. Physical contact startled them both; she withdrew. "We will, we promise, but first I think that your father and I need to finish some fragmentary conversations." _Leave the room_ was written across her face. Harris, of course, got the message and excused himself, flickering his eyes at both of them briefly as he closed the door.

They were alone now. Gabriella coughed slightly; she really needed some therapy, right now. _I left my boyfriend and baby son while another woman was pregnant with his second_ _child_. She gulped and smoothed out her shirt, trying to appear calm. This could be worse, she thought. This could be much, much worse. They could have been on one of those "Survivor" type shows that try to reunite ex couples and then tear them apart over something trivial like a lone fish in the water or leftover firewood.

Yes, it could have been much worse.

And so as she rummaged through her mind for _something_ to start the awkward exchange, she decided there were plenty of possible greetings she could say to Troy; however, in the end, all she could render was, "Hi there."

He stared at her for a moment, and she looked away, self-conscious; he was searching for her flaws, she could tell. He was seeking out imperfections that he could always hold against her. But, to her simultaneous surprise and relief, there were no harsh comments to follow up, only, "Hey."

In a nutshell, she was panicking. To elaborate, she was getting extremely worried about the not-so-dead feelings stirring inside her, purposefully scorching all the right places (mainly her heart) as punishment for being responsible for their current state of personal affairs—talking to Troy; they were the feelings that she had to carry every day, constantly reminding herself that he was married. "So." (Awkward pause.) "How did you get here?"

"I drove. A train ticket was rather expensive, so I figured it would be better if I just took thee Range Rover; it was pretty good with the snow. It's only the second replacement since the one I had in high school," he said softly, stifling a yawn. His eyes were sore from staring at the road for _x_ amount of hours, and his shoulders ached at the thought of sleep. "Well, the town is really as small as you said it had been. When I got here, I just asked the post office guy if there was a Montez around and he said the next street over."

She forced a laugh, and he forced a laugh, and then they were both silent.

"You as nervous and freaked out as I am?" she asked suddenly, her insides squirming so much that she felt like throwing up. But given the fact she hadn't eaten all morning, she'd probably dry-heave.

"I would be lying if I told you no." Troy looked down, eyes focused on the floor. He bit his lower lip and eventually continued, "I've seen a lot of people from East High these last few days; Sharpay and Ryan—who's actually gay, did you know that?—and Chad and Taylor. There was sort of a private reunion at a restaurant the Evans had rented out. Martha got drunk and broke some wineglasses, and Kelsi probably ended up conceiving a child with Jason, since they were furiously canoodling in the elevator…" He paused and sighed. "I'm rambling. But I do have a point. The thing is, it was great to everyone: Zeke, the cheerleaders, the skater dudes; they're all great. But you weren't there. And that's why I didn't have a good time."

She sucked in her breath, blinking constantly in order to not seem like a completely emotional fruitcake that had manic depression. "The children," she said finally, running her fingers through her hair formally as she tried to conceal the jealousy within her that he was still in touch with everyone. "What do we tell them?"

"The truth," he murmured, somewhat irritated and almost hurt she hadn't said anything about him in return. "They have a right to know the truth, and we can't keep denying that."

_Upstairs, Arielle is shut away in her bedroom and Harris is sitting on the couch._

"She's thoroughly pissed," the older teenager offered lazily when he saw the adults—his _parents_, he still couldn't get over that—appear on the upper landing. "I don't know what the song is, but she refuses to lighten up with the volume. I think she's trying to penalize you guys with the circa 2008 alternative music."

Both grown-ups exchanged a glance, and Troy shook off the shiver he got when Gabriella's eyes flashed. "Let's go," he said under his breath, and walked fearfully down the hallway. She followed, feeling like she did when she was eleven and everyone at her cousin's birthday party had food poisoning from the linguini. _I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick, I'm going to be sick_.

Troy reached the only door that was closed in the hall, balling his hand into a fist and knocking gently. Somehow, above the Fall Out Boy noise they could hear her respond with a muffled "Go away!" Gabriella reached past him and turned the knob, meeting a draft of their via the lyrics of 'Apologize'—which was just now beginning to play—by OneRepublic. Ironic.

"I said go away," Arielle insisted as she silenced the music, sitting up. Her face was streaked with tears, eyeliner a watery mess and mascara clumped beyond belief. For a thirteen-year-old, she looked absolutely awful. "Nothing you can say will make me feel any better than I do now, which is absolute disgust and depression. _Leave me alone_."

Neither of the adults could seem to make an argument with this. They had screwed up; they had been stubborn and indifferent and spiteful; they had done something that would inadvertently hurt another—someone they loved in their own separate ways. Troy began to step backwards, but Gabriella's hand instinctively grabbed him and she pulled him forward, before blushing and severing their second contact. "We can't leave, that's not fair to her," she whispered to him, seeing a similar color rise in his face. This made her smile inwardly, the slightest of dimples appearing on her cheeks.

"Arielle…" Troy began. "You know neither of us never meant for you to be so hurt. I know you asked me a lot about Gabriella, I should have told you the truth, but it's just so complicated—"

"_What?_" She sat up, livid. "_What_ is so complicated, Dad? What would it take for you to just have turned around one day and mention that Gabriella was entirely out of my league of hope?" Now she was sobbing uncontrollably, feeling her body shake and her shoulders wrench like all her limbs were being pulled in opposite directions. "I don't see why the fuck adults have to make things so confusing and difficult."

Her father let the F-slip go. He sighed patiently, side-glancing at Gabriella who shook her head and slipped out of the room. A minute later, the bathwater was running in the next room. "Please," Troy begged quietly.

"Please what? Please forgive you? I can't! I can't forgive you!" She sunk her fist into his arm and burst into tears, rolling over beside him so he was staring at her back. For a moment, he contemplated being the one to bring up the matter of _whom_, but then decided it was better he go.

"Wait." Troy stopped, turned back to Arielle. She sniffled. "Who's my mother?"

"Cassandra," he said softly. And then he left, wincing at the sound of grief-stricken hiccups following him into the bathroom next door.

**TYWY**

Love is the triumph over hate. Love is the feeling someone feels stirring inside them when they think about a significant other. Love is admitting you are wrong, and that you are sorry.

"Troy!" Gabriella had been lying in the four-legged bathtub, adorned in bubbles, with her eyes closed before she heard the door open. Now she sat up, arms over her chest despite the fact that white suds were mounted upon her torso, her hair half-wet and her face shocked. "What happened?"

"Don't freak, I'm not going to look." He sat on the floor rug. "She asked who her mother is."

Gabriella leaned back, letting a little water splash onto the floor as her shoulder blades brushed the white porcelain. "Oh. Well. Did you tell her?"

"Yes, I did. And now I feel shitty."

"That's normal, I think, for a parent."

"Yeah, but about not letting the kid go to a party, or have friends over because of their test grade. Not about telling them who their biological mother is."

Love is delicate and strong, well mannered and cheeky, dependable and unreliable, wild and tame. Gabriella rested her cheek on the edge of the tub, feeling the cool ceramic feeling against her hot face. "She still loves you," she said.

"I don't think so," he replied dismally. Gabriella noticed he did not ask if she was referring to Cassandra or Arielle, and then considered if it really mattered.

"You're being dramatic."

He stared at her. "I don't think I am."

She stared back. "But I'm a girl, and we know drama. So if I _say_ you're being dramatic, then trust me when I say so."

"I've missed this," Troy said, waving his hand at the air as if their memories floated between them so, so easily.

There was no reply, but he didn't really need one. Love was also unrelenting and tenacious, above everything else. Gabriella sighed peacefully, and squinted at the dim lamp light in the corner. "What's your favorite memory of us?"

The question was ridiculous, casual, even haphazard, and yet it made the most sense Troy had heard in a long time. "Albuquerque, toward the end of senior year," he said thoughtfully, looking at the lamp as well, perhaps trying to see what she was seeing. "Chad worked as a bag boy at his dad's market, the family deli one near the Vista Theater, and it was a 24-hour market. One Saturday night, you and I were there around one in the morning, and Chad was the only guy working besides one cash register lady. So the three of us had shopping cart races through the aisles, and then you were laughing so hard when you came in third through the beverages section that you rolled right into a pyramid of Sprite boxes and then there was soda _everywhere_." He paused with a smile. "Chad had to clean it up the next day, while you and I shared a chocolate shake from Dairy Queen and watched."

Now, opposed to Harris' shock and Arielle's weeping and Troy's guilt, Gabriella was laughing. She quivered in the tub silently at first, before her entire body was shaking and she let out loud, embarrassing whoops of amusement. It seemed to be contagious, as Troy joined in and soon he was on his back, kicking the floor and misty-eyed from cracking up so much. They both looked at one another, getting into another fit of chuckling, before he was panting and looking up at the ceiling. "What's yours?"

She had to ponder this. "It was a few weeks before I found out I was pregnant. You and I were having a fight, but we still had to go to the benefit my boss was having at a little speech hall on Long Island. The party was boring, the food sucked, and I was having the weirdest time with nausea. Once in a while you'd ask me if I had forgiven you yet, and the answer would always be no. An hour and a half into it, the fire sprinklers were set off because one of my co-worker's kids set a drape on fire. We both got soaked and tried to get outside, but the main exits were both packed with the crowd trying to leave, so you picked me up off my feet and I started crying because you were too sweet and I realized how stupid it was to be mad at you because I loved you so much. We laid out on the grass for another two hours, drenched to the bone while saying favorites and playing Rhyming Words."

"Pickle," he said automatically.

"Fickle."

"Nickel."

"Sickle."

"Tickle."

She tilted her head back and laughed wholehearted, feeling the cold air embrace her wet skin. Troy smiled at his lap and said, "I wish we could have fixed this."

She stopped smiling and looked at him, and then at the water around her. The bubbles had dispersed; the fun had gone away. "I know, I do, too."

**TYWY**

Love is wishing, wanting, hoping, healing. Love is the desire to make your puzzle piece fit with someone else's, in spite of their flaws. Love is being honest in the end, usually because you've never been honest with yourself.

_Look at the stars_

_Look at the stars, falling down,_

_And I wonder where, did I go wrong._


	17. Truce

Chapter Seventeen,

P.S. Mmkay! So, I'm glad that everyone's responding to this story, thank you very much for the reviews. I've noticed some… er, exasperation toward Troy lately, with speculation mostly of how Arielle came to be. I won't give anything away, but hear me out: I'm trying _very_ hard to have no antagonist in this story. Any character that you may deem 'bad' is really just… Not good. Not yet, at least. Anyway, as I always say, enjoy! And review? -love- Desireé

P.S. I love Snow Patrol. Really, they are amazing. :D

Chapter Seventeen, Truce

_Get up, get out, get away from these liars _

'_Cause they don't get your soul or your fire _

_Take my hand; knot your fingers through mine _

_And we'll walk from this dark room for the last time_

_-'Open Your Eyes', Snow Patrol_

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart said, quite famously, 'neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius.' Lord Byron said that 'like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.' Plato had proclaimed that 'at the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.'

Gabriella really wished Plato was still around to see her stutter at everything Troy Bolton said. "Turn around."

He did as he was told, flipping his body so that he faced the wall; he could hear the water slosh around the tub as Gabriella stood up and reached for a towel. "You can look now," she mumbled, wary as she dripped onto the floor. He glanced back at her and smiled slightly.

"So what have you being doing all this time?" he asked in a casual voice as she shook out her hair in the mirror, the water sprinkling him from a distance. By 'all this time', he meant 'while I had to take care of Harris and Ari as a very young, single parent'; she knew this.

"Nothing special," she said. "Nothing compared to your and Cassandra's accomplishments."

It was now that Troy remembered his wife. It was she who was patiently waiting for three people to return; it was she who was struggling to act as a stepmother to both children when she really only had no business doing so for one of them; it was she who had kept quiet all of Arielle's life, for the sake of Troy's wish not to inflict any more pain on their daughter than she would already have to suffer.

"I think I should make dinner," Gabriella suggested flatly, turning to stare at him, her arms crossed over her chest again. He watched her toes curl over the fringe of the carpet, her kneecaps move as she shifted weight from one foot to another. She was beautiful, in her own right of being alone for so long. In fact, she reminded Troy of machinery, delicate and valuable and practical. Somewhere in her heart, he knew there was an On-button that he so desperately wanted to press. _Bring back to life what you have destroyed_.

**TYWY**

Around nightfall, Troy realized he wouldn't be getting back home to New York—with his children, in the very least—right away. But there was a pressing matter weighing him down further every second: tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, and he'd be damned if he would be forced to explain to Cassandra via text messaging _why_ they weren't home yet.

The dining table consisted of three very silent people. Arielle had denied food when Gabriella brought a plate to the door; Harris had tried, too, when his father requested his help, but to no avail. Sometimes damage is irreparable, and that is the most unfortunate thing about people: they say things they think won't matter later on, things that will just dissipate after a while, but around the time the heavy wounds begin to show, hope for recovery is lost.

"Dad?" Harris finally looked up from his baked potato, which he had raked with his fork about fifty times. Little rows of gray formed, appearing like a field, harvesting his questions.

"Yeah?" Troy smashed an asparagus head with his spoon. It puddled to green mush, reminding him of the purée he had fed Harris and Arielle countless times when they were babies. The funniest little things could remind of the times that weren't funny at all.

The teenager across from him hesitated. "Tomorrow is the twenty-fourth," he said softly, choosing his words in a careful manner. "We aren't going home, are we?" There was a pause, when both adults looked at one another and then at the snowdrift outside. Harris bit his lower lip and looked at Gabriella. "Because I don't want to."

The full effect of separation, divorce, custody issues, hit Troy for the very first time. He felt like the neglected parent, the one who tried the hardest but failed the most often; until now, he had never considered the fact that maybe, one day, when he would deal with this topic, the child would not want him. The other parent would a desirable, and he would be left behind, blacklisted to a T. "Well, we don't have to talk about that right now," he sighed, avoiding the glance he got from Gabriella. "Not yet."

A door in the hallway opened and closed in the span of a few seconds, and then Arielle appeared, looking exhausted and confused and somewhat lethal. "I have questions," she said shortly. "I have a lot of questions."

"Ari, really, can't this—" Troy stopped when he heard himself. _No, it can't wait_, she'd say. _I've waited for a long time, and now I'm entitled to some authenticity in this superficial world_. Finally, he pushed his plate forward and nodded. "Sit down on the couch. We'll be right there. You, too, Harris." Harris nodded and quickly disappeared, his fork still rattling his plate as if reminding everyone how uncomfortable the meal had been and how much he had wanted to get of there.

In a moment of cease-fire, Gabriella looked at the man she had loved a long time ago, wondering if what she felt for him now could real be considered 'love'. _Love is the desire to make your puzzle piece fit with someone else's_. But she didn't really want that, not very much. It had only dawned upon her then that what she wanted most out of anything in the world was to be with her child, the one she had loved for so long without even knowing him.

**TYWY**

On a blueprint sheet, the scene would be set like so: the children sitting on the couch, and two chairs pulled up behind the coffee table so they faced the teenagers conveniently. Gabriella was crossing and uncrossing her legs; Troy was biting his thumbnails subconsciously. Harris nudged Arielle, who had been quietly staring at her feet propped up on the table for five minutes. She blinked and glanced up. "I want to know why you didn't tell me," she said.

This question was obviously coming, but Troy still didn't have much of an answer. Scratch that, he did. But it sounded selfish and, to his dismay, it _was_. "I didn't want you to have to deal with what we had set up for you," he murmured finally. Her stare was drilling a hole into his chest. He looked up to meet her gaze, which was so hurt and broken that there had been a strange urge within him to scream. Scream because talking doesn't work anymore. "I never thought that Gabriella would be a very important component to you, but when she was, Cassandra and I both decided it would be nicer to just let you think what you wanted to think."

Parents, though they never wanted to admit it, usually made more stupid mistakes than their offspring did. It was a game of trial and error; the children just happened to be pawns. In the mind of the adult, it was their job to protect their beloved from danger, from pain, from evil. But as Troy thought about it more and more, nothing he had done in the past proved his chivalry as a father or his nobility as a man. The dishonesty just proved one thing, and that was that he had let fear control him.

"Why did you leave?" Arielle slowly turned to Gabriella, who looked a little stunned. But then she remembered that terrible day late in the month of February, when Harris was only a year and a half old and she found she could no longer love Troy Bolton.

_"Get the fuck away from me." She stood up, tears streaming down her face so much that her vision was blurred. She stumbled out of the kitchen, and he quickly followed._

_"Hey, wait!" he said loudly, trying to keep up with her. "God damn it, Gabriella, would you slow down? I'm trying to fix things and all you're doing is making it worse! Way to seem mature."_

_She threw a glare over her shoulder as she walked down the hall, not sure if he had caught her murderous gaze; her contacts were now beginning to fail. "Don't try to educate me on the matter of maturity, because you know absolutely nothing about it," she snapped, shutting herself in their bedroom and slowly lowering herself onto the floor. Heavy, crestfallen cries swallowed her as she asked herself why the hell she was weeping over this._

_Inside, she knew why. She wanted to go home. She wanted to have no responsibilities, and just have not a care in the world. But a boyfriend and a baby made that fairly difficult, as terrible a person she was to say that._

_He knocked, waking her up from the homesick trance. "Come on, Brie, open up. We can talk about this. What do you want? What can I do? I'll do anything for you; you know that. Please—just unlock the door and tell me what's wrong."_

Everything_, she wanted to yell. _Everything is wrong_. But she was quiet, except for the occasional sniffle. She heard him slide down the wall, stoop down so he sat outside the door, waiting for her. "Brie," he mumbled, "if it's about me working, I'll take more time off, okay? I promise. I promise I'll just do whatever it is you need to be happy. We'll take a family vacation to Los Angeles, to see the crazy Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum and visit every zoo in the county. I'll do it all for you, okay?"_

_The commitment seemed sweet, sincere, everything she would want. But now it wasn't enough, and she couldn't change that. Gabriella finally stood up, slowly unlocked the door, and opened it to see Troy sitting there, smiling brightly as if she were coming out to greet him. "I'm leaving," she said in a bashful whisper. His eyes widened, and it looked as though the life had been drained from his face._

_"What?" He looked hopeful; perhaps he had misheard her._

_"I said I'm leaving. And Harris is coming with me."_

_She regretted, slightly, saying this because of the terrible look Troy got, as though someone had just slapped him with an addition of insult to injury. "No! Brie, you can't leave!" he shouted, standing up so he towered over her once again a good five inches. "That's insane, this is just a stupid fight we're having! We'll be able to fix it all, I know!"_

_She shook her head sadly, walking past him to enter Harris' bedroom. He slept soundly in the secured area, getting to be big enough to move on from infantile things such as a crib. _Daddy's going to buy you a new bed soon_, she had said that previous month. _A bed for big boys_. But now, he was just a little baby again, this magnificent figure she could hold in her fingers through the bars of the crib, admiring him before she interrupted his sleep. "Hey, wake up time. Mama's gonna take you somewhere, okay?"_

_Behind her, Gabriella could feel Troy's presence. He was quiet as he watched her pick up their son and open his dresser drawers. "Why are you doing this?" His voice inaudible, but the way he spoke made her understand._

_"I'm doing it because I can't do anything else," she answered, feeling her throat constrict as though she no longer deserved to breathe. Soon a tote bag was packed for Harris, and she considered going to get her clothes from their bedroom._

_"What did I do?" Troy interrogated, face beginning to distort with grief. "I want to correct what wrong I have done, Brie! Please, tell me, so I can fix this."_

_She looked at him, hiked a sleepy Harris up her hip again. "It's not anything that you can fix. I am staying with my mother in Albuquerque; at least until I can figure out what's happening."_

_Now he was begging. "Please, Gabriella, don't leave—" He put a hand on her shoulder and she moved faster, throwing some jeans and tees into another open bag. A feeling inside her pressured her to work harder, seem firmer. Troy's voice made her melt; she needed to get out of there._

_"I'm taking my cell phone. I'll call you in a week, okay?" She stood up, the weight of a child and two packed bags causing her to struggle, meanwhile the hurt inside her forming into tears on her eyelashes._

_ She tried to walk around him but he stooped down she was blocked. "No, don't leave, I want to fix this, Gabriella. Can't you hear me?"_

_"Troy, stop it, I have to—"_

_"Just stop for one fucking second and listen, would you? I—" He grasped her arm._

_"Let go of me!"_

_She jerked and the timing was off. Gravity overwhelmed Gabriella, and all things she held—Harris included—began to fall. She shrieked and collapsed to her knees, fumbling to catch her now whimpering child. "It's okay, it's okay," she said, sobbing with her head hanging over Harris so that her long hair acted like a curtain. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm sorry, don't be mad."_

_Beside them, Troy knelt so he tried to see his son, tried to see how much damage he had caused. He reached for Gabriella, wanting to hold her and let an apology flood from his fingertips and into her blood system, but she shook him off easily this time. "Don't," she said, panting so hard her sentence stopped for a moment, "ever do that again."_

_"Gabriella," he began._

_"Troy," she replied, a longing in her voice that he thought was alien to him. He was now trembling; anything he had ever thought, or considered, or loved, or done, none of it mattered. To be honest, he wouldn't have minded if he blacked out then and there to never wake up again._

_As he touched her back, Gabriella sat up straight and hugged Harris closer to her body. "Don't test me," she sneered, "because I'm tired of it. We're leaving. I just need some time on my own, and we both know you do, too." The exhaust, the hurt, and the anguish finally began to show through her features and while this was the first encounter he had had with them, something told Troy they had been there for a long time._

**TYWY**

Harris stared at his mother. "You took me with you," he said softly, and then looked at his father and Arielle. "But I ended up with them."

Troy bit his lower lip. "It doesn't really end there."

"No," Gabriella added quietly. She started to speak and then stopped, then over again. At a loss for words, she wasn't sure what to do. Troy picked it up.

"The next night Sharpay was having a celebration for her new fashion line at a club, and we had both been invited. But I went, and no one asked why 'the family' wasn't with me, so I was happy." He paused, fiddling with his thumbs. "Cassandra was there. She was one of the newer models, so we just met at the bar and hit it off from there."

_"Hey there," he said giddily, hiccupping as he took a seat at the bar. His face was glowing, dead-set on the soft blonde next to him. She had killer eyes. So did Gabriella, but he had forgotten._

_She didn't look up from her wine glass. "Hey yourself."_

_"So you play hard to get, then? I get it." He nodded, not rationalizing in his head that this was the beginning of the end. "You got a name, Buttercup?"_

_"You can call me Noel," she said, finally glancing at him with a smile. "And we get to know one another a little better, then you can call me Cassandra."_

_At that moment, Troy didn't remember he had a girlfriend (who was practically his wife) and a son and a life that didn't involve come-hither models. And this was his first mistake. "You got a name, too, hotshot?"_

_A pang of familiarity swelled inside him, remembering Gabriella's fond endearment for him, but he took a breath and grinned. "You can just call me Troy."_

The children were silent, Harris feeling remorse and Arielle feeling nausea. She waited for a moment, trying to take in everything the adults were telling her, until she was painfully conscious of a terribly ugly fact. "She was seventeen when she had me?" she yelped, looking offended. "And you were _twenty-one?_ That's—that's rape! I'm a bastard child, and an illegal one at that! My father is a _rapist!_ Oh my—"

"Arielle," Harris said sternly, putting a hand over hers. She glared at him. "That is bullshit and you know it. Dad is _not_ a rapist, you are _not_ a bastard child, and I'm positive this is just as hard to tell for them—" he nodded at Gabriella and Troy "—as it is for us to hear."

Anger painted Arielle's face. She stood up, outraged. "What are you talking about? You can only be confident about that because you're the one who had it good in the beginning! You had a mom at one point, and you do again now, even if you didn't want to come here, even if you hinted Gabriella could be dead for all you cared. But you got exactly what you didn't want. And what the hell am _I_ left with? Cassandra! An air headed slut—" Troy closed his eyes "—that can't keep her legs closed for any guy! Yes, that's right, I know she's not faithful, Dad. All the rumors in the magazines? Of course they're true! Why _wouldn't_ they be?"

And for once, Gabriella felt sorry for Troy. She glanced at him sympathetically, pitying the way he looked shocked and rejected. Arielle wasn't finished there. "And he's stupid enough to just let her be a whore, insisting that because Gabriella ran out on us, we need a mother! Screw that! I am more self-sufficient than anyone because I've had to endure so much crap as a girl without a mother! A mother to brush her hair, a mother to take her shopping, a mother to love her!"

Gabriella stood up, looking cross. "That's enough," she remarked, her voice at the most even tone possible. She nodded at both Harris and Arielle. "Go to your bedroom, and sleep. I don't care how mad you are at us, or me, or your father, but this is my home and you are a guest and I am telling you to go to bed."

They obeyed her sinister instruction—Arielle begrudgingly while Harris graciously—and then Gabriella turned to sit on the coffee table, her knees bumping Troy's in an effort to comfort him. "Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"

He was red in the face, flushed and embarrassed; still, he nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little… dizzy. Nothing really is ever true until someone says it out loud, right?" He forced himself to laugh, in order to release the pain inside him, and she smiled sensitively.

"I guess that goes for most things," she responded. "Up until now I didn't think I was a terrible person to just run out like that. But having to say it out loud, having to explain what possessed us to be so childish and silly: it makes me feel sad and sorry."

Suddenly, he hugged her, and not like a weak hug that you gave to someone you secretly hated, the kind of hug where you practically drag the person into your lap and hold them so tight because you don't want to let go. Gabriella curled up against his chest, her arms around him as she tried to soak up the torture building inside this man that she remembered as just a boy. Troy rested his chin on her head, feeling his eyes burn with salty tears. In this moment, he was at a truce with himself. No more guilt, no more heartache, no more angst.

**TYWY**

_ Albuquerque looked different than he remembered. In fact, he felt like he was driving through an entirely different city, until he reached the Montez house and saw Theresa Montez's silhouette in the window. Parking, Troy battled his conscience: She left, so why should you pursue her? Because you love her, that's why._

_Fear paralyzed him, making him a handicap as he got out of the rental car and just about hauled himself up the walkway. Ringing the doorbell, he waited for the world to end. Soon, light poured onto his face and Gabriella was standing there, surprised but smiling. A minute barely passed before she began to cry and fell into an embrace with him, her mother coming behind her, holding her grandchild. "I missed you," she whispered into his shirt._

_"When did you realize this?" he asked with a charming kiss to her forehead._

_"We didn't get to celebrate St. Patrick's Day together," she said matter-of-factly. Theresa handed Troy the baby, and Harris cooed in his arms. Gabriella beamed, eyes indistinct with tears. "Happy family all together again."_


	18. Dream

A/N: Eh, last chapter wasn't so clear on the feelings of the characters, I think

A/N: Eh, last chapter wasn't so clear on the feelings of the characters, I think—more elaboration here. Review? -love- Desireé

Chapter Eighteen, Dream

_Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth _

_Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut outs_

_Speak no feeling no I don't believe you_

_You don't care a bit, you don't care a bit_

_-'Hide and Seek', Imogen Heap_

In the irony of things, Gabriella had fallen asleep in Troy's arms. After a solid hour of silent embrace—unhurried and willful in a very busy world—he shifted slightly under her body, and realized she had drifted off. The normal, ex-boyfriend-who-was-now-married-to-someone-else in him thought she would be okay catnapping on the couch, but then the old Troy, the one who loved her with all his heart because she had given him what no other girl could (this would be happiness), stood up and carried her into her bedroom, laid her down and slipped her under the covers. She stirred, eyes fluttering open for a moment and then closed. "Sweet dreams," he whispered, picking up a line he had used as a parent.

"You're still as strong as I remember," she murmured, a smile gracing her lips. He could see a mischievous glimmer beneath her eyelids.

"Go to sleep," he told her in an undertone, and kissed her forehead gently. Gabriella sighed and rolled over, taking shape to the pillow tucked between her shoulder and chin. Troy faced the door and quietly left, wishing he could check in on his children. But there was no music playing behind the walls, no light slipping through the crack between the door and the floor, no hint of a whisper passing between siblings.

"I'm sorry," he said to the air, hoping maybe, in an alternate universe, Arielle and Harris heard.

**TYWY**

By the sunrise, the snow had packed another foot into the town and city plows were lazily making their way through every street, obviously unaware that there were three people who needed to get back to New York within twenty-four hours. "Morning," Harris grumbled as he came into the kitchen, one eye closed and hair sticking up. Gabriella sat at the table, drinking coffee and scanning yesterday's paper. She didn't look up from the article about worldwide pollution she had read at least a hundred times in the last forty-one minutes; instead, she loudly sipped her cappuccino and sighed. Harris gave her a sideways glance. "Something bothering you?"

"I woke up at four o'clock this morning," she said, still not meeting his gaze. Her eyes were focused on a picture of the local spelling bee winner, a girl with dark pigtails and a gap in her teeth. In some ways, and not just appearance, she reminded Gabriella of herself. "And I wasn't tired; actually, I was really, really happy, and you know why? Because for thirteen years, I have been trying to picture who you had become and what you were like. And now that you're here, I cannot even begin to explain how—_terrific_ you are. More wonderful than I could ever guess."

This surprised Harris, but he hid his incredulity with a half-smile as he turned back to his mother. "Funny you say that, because all my life I've been trying _not_ to imagine you, to act as if Cassandra really was a good stand-in mom. And when Arielle told me she wanted to find you, I figured I'd just be along for the ride. But now that I'm here, it's like I realized how much I really wanted someone other than Dad." He grew quiet, and then sat down next to Gabriella. "Was I a good child?"

She laughed and nursed her coffee mug against her chest, remembering how she held him to her body as a baby. "You were exceptional. You never cried, you always ate your food without making a mess, and we could take you out with us to dinner and you'd fall asleep in my lap. Probably the best kid at the local nursery school."

Another question came, a little more delicate this time. "Did you, um, know that Dad slept with Cassandra, when you guys got back together that April?"

Gabriella bit her lower lip and dipped her head, passing it off as a nod. "Yes, I did. I didn't really consider it cheating, because I had left with you and I hadn't insinuated ever wanting to get back together, just that I'd call—and that was only because you were his son, too," she added, hesitant before her next comment, "And while I was in Albuquerque, I kind of sort of made out with this guy from high school, to see if Troy was replaceable." She paused and shook her head. "He wasn't."

"Did_ he_ know that you made out with another guy?" Harris asked, wide-eyed and on the edge of his seat, like he was watching a suspenseful movie.

A pinkness rose on her cheeks and Gabriella pursed her lips. "No, he doesn't. Zeke assured me he wouldn't mention anything, and that it was more like a friends-with-benefits thing, which I was completely content with." Everyone, Harris learned at that moment, had demons with which they must deal. It was how you handled them that defined who you were.

**TYWY**

When Arielle was a little girl, her father went out of his way to please her. Some days, when they were finished eating their TV dinners in the loft's living room, she'd ask to get ice cream—ten blocks away. _They have the good waffle cones_, she'd say. And he'd respond, _Okay, Ari, go get your jacket_.

Other days, she would be lying in her bed at seven-thirty, well aware that school would start in half an hour. But she'd look at her father pleadingly and pledge illness, while Harris stood a few feet behind Troy and made faces that clearly showed he saw through his sister's whey-faced act. Of course, so did Troy, but again—he went out of his way to make Arielle happy.

There was one time, though, where he had been the one to suggest something to do. It was the eve of her ninth birthday, and winter had gotten a head start, raining from midway November to early December. _What do you want to do?_ he had asked, a little confused as to why she had not wanted a party. Harris had never been a social butterfly, but his sister was outgoing and boldly spoken, marking a difference. _Nothing_, she had said blandly. _That can't be true, you must want to do_ something, he replied. Then, his face lit up, or at least as much as it could. Someone whose emotion had been torn into pieces a long time ago could only seem so enthusiastic years later. _Let's go for a walk!_

_We'll get soaked, Daddy_, she said. He smiled and picked her up in his arms, carrying her out and relishing in the way she, for once, did not object when he babied her.

Now, four years later, Arielle lay on the bed she had chosen in the room where she and Harris slept, with her iPod off. Not even music could save her now, not the sweet sound of New Age, the intuitive lyrics of alternative, or the power-to-the-people rock pop that she was beginning to hate. Inside, she was nearly dead, feeling like a wilted flower that had just been trampled by a careless toddler's tricycle wheel. _Squish, squish, stomp, stomp_.

Also, she was quite famished.

It was about eight o'clock in the AM, which meant that she had not eaten for a whole twenty-two hours and fourteen minutes. And no matter how inviting Gabriella's mashed potatoes smelled, no matter how nice it was to hear her knock and then hear the gentle bump of the plate against the floor, no matter how much her brother tried to tell her she was missing out—none of this belonged to her. Above everything else, it killed her to think that she'd had a mother all along, just one that was deficient in all ways but one (her body).

Starvation hurt, more than she could recall. Troy always made sure they were fed a proper portion of good, whether it was an unhealthy #2 at the local drive-thru, or a hearty meal the chef fixed for them. And now, Arielle was clutching the right side of her stomach, groaning at the feeling of a hunger pain. She wanted nothing more than to raid the kitchen at that moment, but that would be an unjust surrendering, defeat, failure; this rebellion was what would establish her.

She thought back to a time where she remembered asking about 'her mother'. _What did she look like? _she asked bravely upon her father's bouncing knee. She couldn't have been more than seven. _She was beautiful_, he insisted drearily. _Do I look like her?_ she lobbied like the lawyer he knew she would become. _Yes, you do_, he had said. It wasn't until now that Arielle realized he had been telling the truth.

Cassandra Noel was conventionally beautiful, with customary long peroxide blond hair, the standard seemingly-endless legs, the prevalent contacts-green eyes that had specks of copper—her true color—hidden somewhere in there. Anyone would want supermodel genes in their bloodline; to hear somewhat appreciative yells of your attractiveness from across the street, to read your excellent four-paragraph biopic in a column page of the fashion _Time_ magazine. But Arielle could feel the longing inside her, wishing she were just the daughter of a small town shop owner.

Sitting up, she examined her hands. And though she was pale, an ivory color that stuck out against both Cassandra's and Troy's dusky skins, Arielle saw dirt cover her palms, her knuckles, her wrists; it colored every crease she found; she saw it crawl beneath her fingertips, burning its status with an imaginary seal, as though to show she had been digging a grave for herself all this time.

**TYWY**

Three text messages from Cassandra; four voicemails from the loft's phone numbers; countless missed calls from Greta, his agent. Troy knew there was some upheaval of exasperation north of Sampson; he had a responsibility to be back in New York, yet he made no effort to get up from where he sat on the couch and—as one of the Cassandra messages had suggested—call in a chopper for transportation. Instead, he found himself staring at a picture of him and Gabriella at Lava Springs.

They were wearing casual shorts and t-shirts; her hair was up in a messy bun and she looked heavenly; his relaxed smile said I've-got-the-hottest-girl-around-while-you've-just-got-a-camera, and arm was draped around her shoulder like a shawl. It was a paradise.

"I've looked at that photo maybe four thousand times," a voice spoke. Gabriella came to sit down beside him, placing in his hand a mug of coffee. Caffeine, she had come to believe, was one of the most comforting ingredients in the world. "You can see my thumbprints, the little whorls of condensation still kissing the paper. It reminds me of better times."

He nodded with a benign smile; the portrayal of himself in the picture—young, fresh-faced, adored—made him squirm all these years later, under the glare of old age. _Thirty-four_. Supposedly, the more ancient you got the more value you had; but that applied to the digging sites on the other side of the world. When you were a human, you started to lose self-worth around the time you saw it in your children, and not in the mirror.

"What happened, that day you left?" he asked finally, turning to her.

"Which one?" she countered, her eyes flickering guiltily his way as she took a long, benefiting sip from her coffee cup.

_A few days following Harris' second birthday, the phone rang and Gabriella casually answered it to a crying girl, incoherent and desperate. "My n-name…" she began shakily, trying to catch her breath, "is Cassandra Noel. D-does Troy Bolton l-live here?"_

_"Yes," Gabriella said strangely, furrowing her eyebrows as she sat Harris on the counter. The baby clapped two blocks together, and his mother wrapped her fingers around his hands in an effort to make him be quiet. An angelic child, he didn't protest. "Can I help you with something?"_

_"Actually, I think I'd like to meet him in person," the girl blubbered. "Who is this?"_

_There was a pause, like the moment where you sense the vase roll off the counter—that split second where it is falling and you think, _oh shit_. Gabriella swallowed. "I'm his girlfriend," she replied evenly, her defensive side kicking in like an old habit hard to break. "Ms. Noel, would you mind me asking what business it is that you have with Troy?"_

_"I'm pregnant with his child." The imaginary vase shattered, splintering into a million pieces while Gabriella looked fearfully over the sea of broken glass, wondering how the hell she could get past this without cutting her feet._

**TYWY**

Arielle Delaney Bolton was born December 1st, 2011, at a fire station in Long Island. Except, she had not been given a name; she had not been fondled by her mother (or her father, for that matter); the most tenderness she had received in her first few minutes of life was a trained midwife named Lira who happened to be visiting her brother at work. _There's a good girl_, she had said when Arielle's crying reduced to beautiful breathing, her tiny chest rising and falling as she was wrapped in a blanket. _What are you going to name her?_

This question had been directed to Cassandra, whom Lira could see was not any older than her own senior-in-school daughter at home. _I don't know_, the girl said tiredly, signing some papers while she glanced at the baby. When the infant was placed in her arms, she seemed uncomfortable. Lira suggested she should take a moment to bond with the child, but Cassandra didn't seem pleased by the idea. She had left four hours later in a black town car, running a hasty goodbye over the slight imprint she had left in the minds of some simply nice people who wondered how that child would grow up.

On the way to the loft where Troy Bolton lived, Cassandra sat in the backseat, falling asleep. She dreamt of this man loving her, instead of the girl named Gabriella. She dreamt of being loved, adored, desired by this man who had whispered dirty things to her in a bed in a foreign place she couldn't even begin to describe if given the question. She dreamt of not being pregnant—and now a mother—at the age of seventeen. She dreamt of a better home for the baby beside her, who would never have the same family experience as anyone else. She dreamt this was not her fault.

When Troy Bolton answered the door, she was shocked at his not-so-handsome face. He had five o'clock shadow, half-mast eyes, and a groan underlying in his gaze. Somewhere in the background, a news anchorman was reporting a bombing in Europe, a car crash east of Manhattan, an epidemic in Sri Lanka. Cassandra noticed, as she limped inside, that no one was announcing a young, on-the-rise supermodel delivering a baby. No one was making her humiliation public. No one was disclosing the way she had been titled 'home wrecker' by a girl who Cassandra hated only because of what she had.

"You all right?" Troy asked, fatigued. He took the carrier in which the baby girl lay, looking at her with careful consideration at first. Not waiting for an answer to the first question, he asked another: "What's her name?"

"I don't really care," Cassandra said, crawling onto the couch and closing her eyes. "Call her what you want, it's not like I've…" But she had drifted off to sleep, and he did not wake her, knowing next week she'd be in Brazil for a photo shoot, or in Paris for a fashion show.

Down the hall, Harris was sleeping in his new bed, which Troy had bought only a few days before. He had skipped the promise a long time ago; now he wanted to make sure every commitment he made was kept. "Meet your new half-sister, buddy," he whispered to the boy, whose eyes opened in a flurry of Bolton genes, surrounded by a montage of Montez lineage.

"Mama," Harris said lazily, sitting up. His attention was turned to the new infant though, forgetting about Gabriella, who had left under the false impression that her son was better off with a man who had work and a home and surrounding friends. "Ba-a-a-a-y…"

"Bee," Troy finished softly. He looked at the girl again, and thought back to the naming process he had gone through with Gabriella for Harris. When she had read the girl's names, _Arielle, Anna, Alicia, Allison, Amy. Oh, look, April, like your sister. _He would name her Arielle, and Delaney—just because that was what Gabriella had thought was pretty upon the D section of the baby book.

And so Cassandra Noel spent two days recovering on the couch, while Troy Bolton tried thinking of ways in which his life was _not_ totally fucked, and Arielle Delaney spent most of her days sleeping but her brother Harrison James looked up at the ceiling, the windows, the doors, wondering where in the world Gabriella Montez had gone, and dreaming of the glorious ways she would come back to him, to shower him with love and affection that he would never get from his father only due to the fact that his black hair and tan skin painfully spoke the name of his mother like a carbon copy.

A/N: This chapter… Is sort of blah. But review? Tell me what you think? -love- Desireé


	19. Same Page

Chapter Nineteen,

A/N- Okay. -big breath- I am _really_ sorry for this being really late. I have been writing this chapter, inch by inch, in the past week and have been slow so it's really insane. But, um, maybe, the events here will be satisfying? -love- Desireé

P.S. You know who I love? Katie, that little yellow bug thing in _Horton Hears a Who_. She makes me laugh. :D

Chapter Nineteen, Same Page

_Well you are the one, the one that lies close to me_

_Whispers, "Hello, I miss you quite terribly"_

_I fell in love, in love with you suddenly_

_Now there's no place else I could be, but here in your arms_

_-'Here (In Your Arms)', Hellogoodbye_

By late afternoon, Harris had walked outside to lie on the snow-covered lawn and settle into the ground like a piece of nature meant to be there. He stared at the sky, the blue that outlined the clouds charring his similarly colored eyes. As a child, he remembered looking up at the sun, wondering how something so far away could reach a place like Earth. Troy had always pulled him away, reminding him he should be mindful of his eyesight. But Harris had thought this to be silly; his father was one of the blindest people he had ever met. Who was he to chastise him about vision?

The door to the shop opened, and both of his parents plodded outside, looking apologetic. "We have mostly addressed Arielle in this situation," Gabriella said softly, coming to sit down beside him. "But we both wanted to know how you were holding up." Evidently, she had not mentioned anything to Troy about their conversation early that morning.

"I guess," Harris said, propping himself up on his elbows, "that I don't really have an opinion. Nothing has changed for me, if you think about it. I'm still a lanky teenager whose home life isn't very different from anyone else's, save for the missing parent thing. But you guys are working it out."

Neither of the adults looked particularly promising, but he didn't add anything else. Gabriella pressed her hands together and tilted her head to one side. "Can we do anything else for you, Harris?" she asked, voice as fragile as the glass perfume bottles he had always been tempted to drop at department stores. One slip of his fingers and the flasks would burst against the ground like tiny bombs. And when they were all broken, fragmented into millions of shards, there would be silence.

"Lie here, on the ground," he answered after a moment of pondering. Troy and Gabriella both looked at him oddly, unsure of what he meant. Harris pointed a finger at himself, as if to demonstrate. "I want both of you to lie down next to each other for half an hour. That's all I want. Don't ask why, because I don't really have a reason; just consider the things around you and what your life once was."

He stood up and disappeared into the shop; both of the grown-ups looked apprehensive, before Troy fell back against the snow and Gabriella did the same. He could feel her hair tickle his shoulder, even through the thick fleece of his jacket, just as he remembered. "What would you do if I kissed you right now?" he asked, his arm bumping hers emptily.

"Probably kiss you back," she said, and he wondered if she was smiling but dare not sit up to look. At this moment, Troy wanted to listen to Harris and keep his promise: half an hour on the ground.

"Okay," he said faintly, and felt her fingers wrap around his wrist to give him a small squeeze of reassurance, as if to say, _I'm glad you can still read my mind_.

**TYWY**

The Christmas Eve dinner was nothing special. Gabriella made a Mom-dish—hamburger casserole—as it was the end result of all the ingredients she could find in the kitchen. Harris had finished three glasses of pomegranate juice in five minutes; Troy was carving a picture into his food with his fork; she couldn't blame either of them. For a holiday evening, there was very little warmth to go around.

No one tried to deny the terribleness of the meal, so Harris sprinted for downstairs as soon as his mother excused him. The adults sat back, awkwardly, not sure what to say. "I guess I should go talk to her," Troy said lamely after a few minutes. He was talking about Arielle; it had just occurred to him he had not seen her for nearly a day.

"Don't ask me," Gabriella replied stiffly, reaching for Harris' dishes. "I'm not her mother." He winced as she dropped a plate and let it break when it hit the floor. Troy started for the mess, crouching to pick up the pieces, but she waved her hands at him. "No, no, I've got this. Go talk to your daughter. She needs you."

Her door was closed. There was a soft train-like sound in the background; he knocked, hesitated, and then turned to knob to let himself inside. Troy eyed the iHome that sat on the nightstand, the only reminder that this room was partially hers. "It's Imogen Heap," Arielle said hoarsely, her face stuffed into the blanket. He walked over to sit on the edge of the bed and pry her away from the comfort of asphyxiation. When their eyes met, she finished, "You lied to me."

The guilt did not go away after a while; Troy couldn't believe that anyone would ever say that, after a week or two, shame could begin to dwindle. He could feel her words branding scars into his heart like hot metal. "I know that, Ari. But, look," he began, not sure where he was going with this.

"No," she said aggressively, her posture tightening as if she lay against an ironing board. "_You_ look. Thirteen whole years and you completely disregarded telling me about this? You turned a blind eye when, in fact, you knew that Gabriella had left _twice_—count them, yes; two separate times! Every moment I asked about her, every time I brutally insulted Cassandra or threw around some rumor and claimed it to be true, you could have dropped me a monosyllabic note citing my actions as 'futile' or 'empty'. You could have saved me the trouble of crying over her before I went to bed, from trying to find her when really Harris was the one who would have the treasure chest as the end!"

She knew she was ripping into him with every single thing she sneered; and secretly, she liked it. She liked to see her father bow his head in regret—there was some twisted justice in watching those who have betrayed you suffer.

"Arielle," Troy began one more time, but the look on her face made him melt. If nothing else, his daughter did have a way with manipulation. He wondered which side of the family passed down that trait.

The iHome changed a song, and he thought he remembered the lyrics but bit his lower lip subconsciously. "I begged you for something to help me understand, some sort of idea or encouragement. It was difficult enough to not know everything the other girls in school did, because I just a dad who couldn't talk to me about my period or puberty or sex. It was one of the worst things in the world to get a stepmother when I thought there was another woman who was being robbed of her rightful spot in the family. But the thing I hate most?" Arielle stopped her, looking down at her torn cuticles, bitten fingernails. "The fact that Harris has been my best friend my entire life, and yet he's only fifty percent of who I am—he's my half-brother, and I never knew that."

The song chorus played. Yes, Troy knew this song. He opened his mouth to speak, listening to _I chime in with a, "Haven't you people ever heard of closing the Goddamn door?"_ But Arielle finished first, "It's for that—I hate you."

_No, it's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality._

No parents wanted to hear that. Maybe some deserved to hear it, but certainly no parent wanted to witness their child's claim to hatred for them. Troy's palms clammed up as Arielle turned away, silently mouthing the words to the song. He grinded his teeth, debated whether or not to reply. Finally, the father stood up, shaking his head an inch to the left, and an inch to the right, before leaving the room. In the living room, Gabriella was moving her body mindlessly, hearing the music. "I remember this," she said, leaning on her broomstick. Beside her, the dustpan held the broken shards. "It's Panic! right?"

"She hates me," he answered, "She hates me. Her father, her parent, her own flesh and blood."

"As opposed to what?" Gabriella asked curiously, picking up immediately on his brooding mood. He looked at her and she smiled. "She's a teenager; you are her overbearing, unfair, somewhat mendacious father. Of course she hates you. And now that she's got you in a corner, she'll do almost anything to hurt you—to get you back."

He picked up the dustpan, and saw the vague reflection of himself in the plate pieces. "Why are you the parent that has all the answers when—" Troy stopped, embarrassed.

She nodded her head as if to prompt him. "When I've been gone for the last thirteen years?" He looked down at the floor sheepishly. "Well, I was her age at one point," Gabriella sighed, throat burning; but she didn't think she was getting sick. "I hated my mother a lot, too."

"When does it stop?" Troy asked desperately. There was a sunken misfortune in his eyes, like he had crashed against the woe and now it stuck like glue to him.

Gabriella took the dustpan from his hands, balancing it against her stomach for a moment as she considered his question. "When she realizes why and just how much she loves you."

_At midnight, Troy is reminiscing high school days in the shop downstairs._

Had Gabriella never come to East High, he would have most-likely started going out with Sharpay.

Had Gabriella never come to East High, he would have continued a basketball career and never felt the joy that echoed through him while he sang.

Had Gabriella never come to East High, he would have never realized how stupid it was to stick to the status quo.

Had Gabriella never come to East High, Harris would never have been born.

There were plenty of things running through Troy's mind, convincing him that Gabriella's transfer to East High was not a bad thing. But still—couldn't she have just remained a New Year's Eve snow lodge memory? Something to make him smile when he retired, remembering the naïve days of his life? He felt bad to wish for these things, but he couldn't help it to think that she was the central cause of all this.

"You couldn't sleep, either?" a voice asked, and he jumped from his spot near the front window. Gabriella stood in her bathrobe and pajama bottoms, rubbing her arms half-heartedly in an attempt to warm up. The heater was broken.

"Crap, you scared me," he sighed, holding a hand to his temple, maybe trying to steady the rambling conclusions inside his head. For a moment, she looked old and worn and exhausted, but then her teenage semblance shone through—a smile only he could see; opinions only he could understand. No one in Sampson knew the Gabriella Montez in high school. The _kids_ didn't know the Gabriella Montez in high school. They didn't know how smart she was, or how many different laughs she had.

There was the annoying, giddy one that she used when she was trying to get back in someone's good graces. There was the soft laughter, when she was trying to be tactful. There was the uncontrollable giggling she got whenever someone said something random and hilarious.

But then there was the coquettish snicker she got, whenever they were fooling around on the high school campus; in the gym room, on the bleachers, in a classroom when they were supposed to be filing papers for the teacher. Usually, he'd kiss her neck, or her collarbone, and her eyes would light up and she'd simper. This laugh he liked best, because it was the one that caught her off guard the most—where she wasn't so formal and proper and just let go for once.

She sat down beside him calmly, staring out the window. The moonlight illuminated her face, giving her an eerie glow, skin bone white. "Have you ever hated me?" he asked after a moment, somber-faced. "I mean in the last thirteen years—while we were apart."

Gabriella hummed. "No, I don't think so. At least I can't really remember. If anything, I was the one to be hated." She looked at him, exhaled.

He shook his head. "No, I've never hated you. Maybe some resentment, but heartache can do a lot to a person," he said, the ledge beneath the window digging into his palms.

"My turn to ask a question," she said, obviously prepared. "Are you lonely?"

The answer spilled out of his mouth much too quickly. "Yes, but also no. I love Harris, and Arielle, both more than air. It's hard to imagine people who don't want a family. It's this big, life-changing thing; all of the sudden you've created another human and they're your responsibility and love and whole day. I remember when Harris first started to walk, I was ecstatic." He sighed, holding himself up in order to keep from slipping. "But even now, they're growing up. They're a lot older, and Cassandra doesn't really love me, and I don't love her."

After a minute, he asked what she hated to hear: "Are _you_ lonely?"

"And if I was?" she countered.

"Don't avoid the question, I answered honestly and now so do you," he said, settling onto the ground. She took a spot beside him and yawned pensively.

"Yes," Gabriella finally decided. "But in an almost satisfied way, as if I know that this is all I will ever have and it's my fault that I'm solo. I'm sorry, you know."

His head swayed to one side, implying_ no_. "Don't apologize. We're both at fault."

_"You aren't stopping me," she noted at the door. In her hands were two suitcases, packed more efficiently than the last time she had left. He had come home to find her stuffing her wardrobe into the luggage, a little more expectant now._

_"No," he said softly. It was only days after Thanksgiving, at which point Troy had gone with April in Boston and Gabriella had spent time with the Danforths._

_Her lower lip quivered, and she blinked away tears, staring at the empty hallway in front of her. "I wanted you to want me, too."_

_"I do want you," he insisted halfheartedly, knowing any attempt was fruitless._

_"But not like you did before," she finished._

_Troy wrapped his arm around her one final time, and she kissed him, still feeling the very same spark, as did he. But neither of them spoke, and she asked to make sure Harris would know that she loved him. He, of course, would oblige, but could not understand why she wasn't taking him this time; why she chose to abandon him._

_In the elevator, she broke down. She felt her heart heave a leaden wound as she sobbed into her arms, trying to clean up before anyone saw her. __"Going somewhere, Ms. Montez?" the doorman, Alan, asked curiously when he spotted Gabriella come outside the apartment lobby with her suitcases dragging behind her. "A winter vacation, perhaps? Where is the rest of the Bolton clan? Troy too engrossed in his art again?"_

That day was absolutely the worst day of Gabriella's and Troy's lives; it was a mistake that was irreparable, but also a forewarning to jeopardy of the future. She crawled into his lap again, and this time, he ignored his conscience that despised hatred and infidelity, bringing her lips to his. "I've been waiting for you to do that this entire time," she whispered into his shoulder, feeling her eyes burn with tears again. "Is that bad?"

"No, it isn't, because _I've_ been waiting this entire time, and the past thirteen years, too," he replied softly, running his fingers through the very tangled ends of her hair. He pulled his index finger through one knot and she arched her neck against his chest. "You're satisfied with being lonely, then?"

"Yes," she murmured, tucking her legs beneath her and feeling his warm arms stroke her skin.

"I'm not," he told her, pulling her up so she kissed him with fervency he had missed for quite a while. "Glad to know we're on the same page."

A/N- Ick. That last scene was hard to write, and I think it's cornball-ness is pretty evident. But, review? -love- Desireé


	20. Guilty

A/N- I guess, a few days ago, I stumbled upon the High School Musical 3 cast list and found that Troy's mother is indeed named Lucille. :D I changed her name in this story and the rest. So, just so you know, Troy's mom is now "Lucille". Thanks everyone for the reviews, they really are awesome! -love- Desireé

Chapter Twenty, Guilty

_Pardon me for saying so but you look more pitiful_

_Than I had ever imagined_

_Despite perfect fashion_

_And your photographs depict you so differently_

_I always thought you would be, some sort of match for me_

_-'Playing With Fire', Emery_

When Gabriella was pregnant with Harris, she imagined the wondrous holidays she would spend with her children. At Christmastime, they would wake her up early—five o'clock in the morning with the sun still sleeping beyond the mountains. They would yell for the presents, shout for the parents to come downstairs, bounce around on the sofa in excited anticipation. And eventually, Gabriella would observe their wishes and come out to the home's public domain with her husband, smiling broadly.

Looking back, she realized she had never included Troy in these dreams.

It was about three o'clock in the morning; she was lying next to him in her bedroom (they had moved sometime from the shop downstairs), her hand gripping his in such a demonstrative manner that he had to murmur something about circulation to her once in a while. She'd let go, blushing, but he would just grin and lean over to kiss her.

While he was perfectly fine with lying next in his boxers and her in a t-shirt, she worried about Cassandra, no matter how much she hated her for ruining their ultimately perfect lives with just one night drinking underage. "She's expecting you back," she said uneasily, rolling over so the upper half of her body was draped across his chest. She gathered her hair so it wouldn't brush his face, but he secretly wished she hadn't. "And you still haven't called her."

Troy knew what he was doing wasn't exactly the most admirable thing in the world. His children were in the next room, sleeping away their troubles, the troubles that he had caused. And on the other side of the wall, in this room, he held both of Gabriella's hands, trying to keep his eyes closed so he wouldn't have to see reality. But she nudged him and he gave up, squinting slightly. "When I came here, I didn't want to see you. I just wanted to get Harris and Ari, and drive back to New York."

Gabriella noticed he was avoiding the topic of Cassandra, but she simply nodded. "I'm not exactly a true desirable," she conceded, concentrating resolutely on a bleeding hangnail.

"That's not true," he said. "When I saw you listening to that CD, my heart stopped. I felt like you were leaving all over again, and my mind was just teasing me with a memory of you. But I recognized those lyrics."

"_Falling, yes I am falling_," she whispered, her hands clasped over her mouth.

He finished softly, "_And she keeps calling, me back again_."

**TYWY**

Something was cardinally wrong when Harris woke up late that morning and emerged into the living room.

He glanced at his mother, who was positively glowing from where she stood at the kitchen counter. Across the room, Harris saw his father lounging on the floor next to the fake Christmas tree that had appeared there overnight, blushing every few seconds.

Something was very wrong.

"What did you do?" he demanded in a murmur when he sat down next to Troy, glancing at the sports magazine he held. It was upside down. "Dad, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Troy said with a smile. He blinked for a second. "Oh! Merry Christmas! Oh—shit. Crap, I forgot." He hesitated. "I'm sorry, Harris, we didn't get you guys anything."

The boy shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Just use the money you would have spent and donate to some charity, it'll be our good deed of the week."

"Boooys!" Gabriella sang from the other room. Harris looked a little pale when he heard this. "Come help me for breakfast!"

"Is that _Mom?_"

His father grinned. "I thought you knew she sings."

"_Used_ to sing, Dad, as in 'she _sang_'." Harris was about to elaborate but decided against it and carried himself into the kitchen, Troy close behind. "Merry Christmas, Mom," he greeted Gabriella, giving her a halfhearted hug.

"Good morning!" she exclaimed, sliding her arms around him cheerfully. "And Merry—oh, shit." She looked at Troy. "We didn't get them anything."

Troy nodded. "I already apologized, your turn."

"I said don't worry about it," Harris reminded his father, slipping out from under Gabriella's grasp and peering over the sizzling pans on the stovetop. Pancakes. This made him smile slightly; for a brief moment, he imagined a normal family—one that woke up early to a hot breakfast and gathered around the fireplace afterward for some relaxation and conversation. But this was just a recurring dream, he suggested to himself. Don't ever get your hopes up.

The enthusiasm that had suddenly appeared in both Gabriella and Troy continued throughout the morning. By eleven o'clock, Harris was perched on the counter, watching his parents interact. Once or twice his father would pass his mother and skim his arms around her waist, tugging her off the ground and waiting for her to protest good-naturedly. It was as if they had forgotten there was an audience; their playfulness was moderately nauseating—in spite of that, Harris was amused to see them flirt. He still recalled the fact that he had a stepmother, someone who tried her hardest to be accepted, and yet watching Troy and Gabriella reunite in the simplest of ways made him want to neglect his good-guy conscience and just shout because he finally was getting the real parental experience.

"How do you like your eggs, Harris?" Gabriella giggled, turning the second grid fire high on the stove. Troy leaned against her, oblivious to his son's observations, and whispered something. The woman simpered and Harris noticed he was now getting eggs over easy—even though he liked them scrambled.

"Dad, you want to go get Arielle?" the teenager said loudly, hopping off the counter and coming to wedge himself between them. Both the adults looked a little surprised, and then became aware of their… spectacle.

"Oh, are you sure you can't get her?" Troy asked, looking past the dining table and out toward the living room.

Harris elbowed him. "No, I think _you_ should. It's Christmas morning, if you can't get us presents then the least you can do is be the one to greet her."

"You said you didn't care!"

"And I won't if you go get Arielle," Harris replied, pushing his father out of the kitchen. He waved his hands, and Gabriella snickered when she imagined her son saying, "Shoo! Shoo!"

While Troy made the long walk down the hall for the sixteenth time, Harris turned to Gabriella. "What did you guys _do_ last night?"

Gabriella, alarmed, dropped the fork she held into the second batch of runny eggs and looked at her son. "What?"

"What did you guys _do_ last night?" he repeated.

She immediately reddened and busied herself with trying to get the fork out of the pan. "Nothing."

"You guys had sex, didn't you?"

"What? _No!_" Gabriella turned off the fire and rested her elbows on the countertop. "We didn't have sex. But we… weren't exactly conventionally respectable." She paused for a second and lifted her head. "Has your father given you 'The Talk' before?"

Harris made a face. "Dad? Gross, _no_. But Arielle and I know all about it—we go to a prep academy where quickies are like a sport."

"Right." Gabriella rolled her eyes and finally reached for the fork in the eggs. "Well, if you _must_ know, we just kissed and fooled around a little. Nothing big, just like we were teenagers but it still isn't excusable. I keep thinking about Cassandra, who I have been calling a home wrecking whore for thirteen years; now I'm in her position and I feel terrible."

This was slight news, and Harris didn't know what to say. As much as he liked the idea of his parents being normal parents—embarrassing, ridiculous, fairly irritating—he couldn't stand the idea of getting what he wanted if it meant Gabriella would stoop down to Cassandra's level.

"I don't know if it's my place to say anything," he admitted, and considered the moment before hugging her like they'd been apart for the longest time. In a whisper he added, "But I'm happy I'm spending Christmas with you, Mom."

_Troy has a heart to heart with himself._

When Troy knocked on Arielle's bedroom door, he was afraid of what he would find inside. She did not answer, so he permitted himself entrance and saw that she was asleep. Next to the bed, a Nature Valley bar wrapper lay with some crumbs spread next to it. Well, at least she was eating.

He sat on the end of the bed heedfully, trying not to disturb her peacefulness. "When you were born, the first thing I noticed was how beautiful you were," he said indistinctly. "And for the first week of your life, Cassandra did stick around. She had to, at first, because she was really exhausted from the delivery. But afterward she stayed. She explained breast-feeding to me and diapers and all that. I think she wanted to be there, to stay, but she had a big career to chase, you know.

"She'd come over once every other week; she'd marvel at how big you were getting and how much you looked like the both of us." Troy smiled and nodded. "But around your second birthday, she stopped coming, because we had made a plan when you were born. Cassandra would enhance her career, and then she'd come back when everything was settled. But there was a flaw somewhere in that plan, and it was Gabriella.

"You wanted to know about her, and I never said anything because I thought that—" He stopped shortly, remembering what he had said to Gabriella the first night he arrived in town. "I thought that nothing really is ever true until someone says it out loud."

There was everything and more to say to her: apologies, explanations, comforts. But Troy decided that if he would every say these things, he would say it face to face with Arielle. As he left the room, he smiled slightly. Talking had never been his strong suit, but this was a first step.

Opening her eyes, Arielle sat up and looked at the open door, hearing her father's footsteps dissipate. "Nothing really is ever true until someone says it out loud," she sighed, nearly regretting the fact that she was such a good fake-sleeper.

**TYWY**

The sun had set by late afternoon, which made Gabriella tug on a jacket and walk outside to enjoy the night sky. In the city, she could never see the stars—the city lights were like pollution to the natural beauty of the moon. This was one of the reasons she liked Sampson; in fact, she'd made a pros and cons list when she first settled in the apartment above the Witching Hour. In the pros list, she identified collective things like the ability to start everything over; peace and quiet; a new business plan. But the cons list went much farther down the paper; at the top it, she had scrawled 'No Troy or Harris'.

She pulled her hood over her head and exhaled, seeing the smoky waft of air drift in front of her face. "Hey there," Troy's voice carried behind her, and she turned to see him slowly step over the ice at the front door.

"Hi," she said, seeing the vapor again. Gabriella pushed her guilt to the back of her mind as he walked toward her, bringing her into a hug so he could rest his chin on her head. Neither of them showed any more signs of hesitation; they simply fell into place with one another and that was that.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly.

She pulled back to look up at him. "And how, Mr. Bolton, do you know that I'm thinking about something in particular?"

He smiled. "I always knew it back when we were in high school, and when we had Harris. You would get really quiet, and once in a while you'd start to hum to yourself, like you were setting the mood. It was actually really cute."

"Stop it, you're making me blush." The ice beneath them was slick; Gabriella could feel her feet begin to slide out from under her, but Troy tightened his grip. She smiled against his shirt. "I liked it when you kissed me, and if you did it again right now I don't think I would fight back—but I'm too old. I think we're both too old."

Somewhere in the distance, a car honked its horn. Troy laughed and leaned down. "No, you're never too old—" As nature would have it, they shifted too far to one side and lost their balance, both slamming down on the ice and colliding rather painfully—his chin had struck the side of her forehead.

"Shit," she sighed, touching the bruising contact point on her hairline gingerly. "I guess we deserved that."

"I know," he grumbled, tapping his bleeding jaw. Troy winced and sat up. "It's only our luck that we'd injure ourselves while wrongfully re-creating our past."

"Mom? Dad?"

They both turned to see Harris standing on the shop's welcome mat, looking a little disturbed. "How long have you been standing there?" Gabriella asked hesitantly.

"Long enough to see you guys attempt romance," Harris replied. He jabbed his thumb behind him. "But that's beside the point. Arielle wants to see Dad."

Troy raised his eyebrows. "Me?" His son nodded and waved his hands to give him the welcome wagon inside. Troy walked slowly past him as if testing for weak floorboards. He bounced slightly on one or two of them, stalling for time. Now that he was finally getting somewhere with his daughter, he was at a loss of what to do. She was waiting upstairs on the sofa, smiling when he appeared on the upper landing. "Hey, Dad," she said softly.

Confusion was obvious on his face. "Hi, Ari," he answered, rubbing the tense spots on the back of his neck. Gabriella was right: they were too old for kissing outside—and subsequently breaking their faces as they crashed to the ground.

"I wanted to say I was sorry," she admitted, standing up when he came next to her. Suddenly, her arms were wound around his waist and she was speaking into his jacket. "I know you've done everything for me that you could, and you always made sure I was happy as a child, even though I was kind of a pissy little ten-year-old who was hard to please."

Troy found himself smiling as he sat down, and she didn't break the hug. "Cassandra loves you," he said, "and so do I. Gabriella does, too, just not like you wanted her to, I think."

The girl shrugged and lifted her gaze to meet his. "Yeah, but—hold on, what happened to your face?"

"Oh, my chin. Yeah, I just hit it outside when I fell," he told her, omitting the details that involved Gabriella.

"Are you okay?" she asked, sitting up to press the injury. He cringed, and she snatched back her hand. "Sorry." For a moment, Arielle was quiet, looking past him and outside at the window. "Daddy, I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for being such a bitch."

"Language—"

She rolled her eyes. "For being such a _pain_," Arielle corrected, and then added, "in the ass. Will you forgive me?"

This, Troy remembered, was the better half of parenthood. He nodded and she propped her head on his shoulder, feeling her eyes sting with tears. "And D-Daddy?" she sniffled. The shakiness in her voice was unsettling, as she continued, "I want to go home."

"We'll be back in the city tomorrow," he said, smiling as one of her tears dropped onto his sleeve and her breathing pattern began to regulate again like it had earlier that day in her room. "I promise." It was there that Troy Bolton tilted his head back on Christmas Night and closed his eyes, while his daughter Arielle Delaney finally got the rest she had deserved for a very, very long time.

And when he woke up, the world was on fire.

A/N- I stole that line from a cliffhanger chapter in Scott Westerfield's book called Uglies. It's a peculiar book; I still haven't read the sequels so I can't say a lot about it. Anyway, review, lovelies! Thanks a bunch! -love- Desireé


	21. Realize

Chapter Twenty-One,

A/N- This chapter took me forever. I know it's been practically a month, but I seriously had no idea what to do with this, and eventually just pushed it to the back of my mind. I have no idea how many more chapters I'd like to do. It's on the fence right now. Anyway, enjoy this one! It's dedicated to Chloe! Or, Chloex93. Happy belated birthday, girly girl! I'm so sorry I didn't have this up sooner. -love- Desireé

Chapter Twenty-One, Realize

_I can feel you all around me_

_Thickening the air I'm breathing_

_Holding on to what I'm feeling_

_Savoring this heart that's healing_

_-'All Around Me', Flyleaf_

--

_And when he woke up, the world was on fire._

At first, the smell of burning fabric hit slammed into his nostrils, like an addictive drug. Troy realized he was by himself; Arielle was nowhere within sight, but not that he could see very far. Smoke shrouded around him like a magnetic coat, swirling in his eyes and irritating his throat. He stumbled forward, careful of the shrubs of flames planted around the floor. The ceiling was alive with color, ready to fall. Terror began to paralyze every muscle in his body; _get your children_.

He opened his mouth, thinking to yell for help, but the oxygen had been sucked from the air. The stairs were streaked with blackened holes, gaping holes singed with embers that he carefully avoided as he made his way down to the first floor. "Arielle," he tried to say, coughing in the process. A familiar face appeared: Harris.

"Dad!" He seemed surprised to see his father, as if the teenager had concluded this was how it would all end—in an immeasurable maze of heat. "I-I lost Mom and Arielle—I think they're toward the back of the room, with the storage. I-I'm sorry."

Troy looked around frantically, waving his arms to clear the smoke. The front door flashed in the corner of his eye, and he pushed Harris toward it. "Get outside," he ordered, struggling with his speech.

"I can't leave!" Harris said indignantly, covering his mouth in an effort not to inhale any ash. "That's wimpy!"

"That's _smart_," Troy snapped, "now go!"

The boy had no choice but to turn and open the door, searing his hand on the metal knob in the process. A burst of fresh air blew inside, and Harris slid on the ice, falling on his knees. Troy looked away, back at the senseless fog in which he hoped Gabriella and Arielle still were. He took a step forward, and watched the stairs' banister come ablaze in less than a few seconds. Fire could spread that fast; he would have to go faster.

Things were melted; furniture was charred charred; the shop's merchandise was burnt to a crisp. Troy could barely think straight as he felt around blindly for a path. "Gabriella," he whispered, wondering why it was her name he said rather than his own and only daughter's. "Ari…"

**TYWY**

Ash frosted her black hair, aging her forty years in the span of four minutes. Gabriella felt the gray dust interweave through her locks, as the wooden walls dwindled away to cinders. She sat in the storage room, as still as she could be, with Arielle in her lap. The girl's face was striped with dried tears, her eyes closed. At one point, she had fainted. Gabriella didn't know why—either because of the heat or because of the panic. It didn't really matter, though. They weren't getting out of there.

The storage room wasn't screaming with flames like the rest of the building. Actually, it was a lot more peaceful than anything Gabriella could imagine. Some of the beams high above them were smoldering, little wisps of smoke looped around them like curtain rings. "Keep us safe," she whispered.

When Gabriella awoke, she found the downstairs veiled with black smoke. It didn't make sense at first; she had no idea where it was coming from nor did she know where anyone was. The stairs were masked, too, making it difficult to see anything when she tried to walk up to the living room. Then, on the upper landing, she saw the dreadful fate: flames licking the kitchen cupboards, and Arielle standing in the middle. "_Ari!_" she screamed, sprinting through the smoke to get to her.

The girl was crying. When she saw Gabriella, Arielle hugged her and moaned something about Troy, and Harris. There was a choice: a son or a lover.

Downstairs, Gabriella roamed the shop for her child. Arielle had followed her, insisting her brother meant just as much to her as he did to his mother. "Harris!" they both yelled. The fire began to outline the room's walls, like a silhouette that warned of nothing good to come. "Harris!"

Time began to slow down; Gabriella realized it was that point where life was ending, and the flashbacks would ensue. She didn't really remember much of her childhood; there wasn't a lot to be nostalgic about. But she could remember her last couple of years in high school perfectly. The boyfriend, the popularity, the best friends, the singing. It wasn't until now that she realized how much it all meant to her, and how silly she was to leave it all behind in hope that it would always be there waiting for her, just in case she changed her mind.

"Harris," she said, her voice flat and stagnant. "Harris." Beside her, Arielle seemed to dissolve among the sheets of orange and yellow around them. The heat was choking Gabriella. She didn't want to stand up anymore.

"Mom!" Harris came through the thick smoke and hugged her tightly, one arm wrapped around his sister to include her in the embrace. "What's going on? What happened? How'd the fire start? Where's Dad?"

After that, Gabriella could not remember a lot more. She closed her eyes and Arielle took her hand, but Harris never followed. Now they sat in the storage room, and she wanted to cry, but every drop of salty water that rolled down her cheek soon evaporated, as if the fire told her _you're not allowed to feel any sadness at all_.

She heard Troy call her name for the tenth time. It was just her imagination teasing her, someone coming to save them from this hell. But all of the sudden, Troy appeared in the doorway, his face smudged with a black substance. "We have to get out of here," he said, kneeling beside Arielle. She was so little in his arms, like a doll ready to break. It took all of his strength not to collapse; the shop was dark and murky. There was no possible way to get out of there confidently. Gabriella strode beside him carefully, his guide in a foggy storm. The door materialized, and then it was simple. The home stretch was getting out the door where there would be safety waiting for them.

The glass of the windows was shattered across the ground. Troy tried to avoid every fragment, but one managed to slip by him and pierce his heel. He groaned, his knee giving way; Arielle began to fall toward the ground, gravity pulling at her just as it had Harris in infant form. Gabriella reached out to catch her, successfully steering clear of the rest of the shards.

"Dad! Mom!" Harris was screaming from outside. When she got close enough, Gabriella would see him pawing at the building, a firefighter's arms restraining him from moving any closer. "Where are they? Why aren't you going in to get them? _I need them!_"

Time slowed again. Gabriella wondered how long she had been waiting for this moment, how long she had wanted to hear someone want her as a mother, as a friend. When they reached the door, the fire crackled and hiss, and she could feel the force blast her shoulder blades. A ceiling shaft fell and they pushed outside. Cool, winter air graced their skin. A paramedic immediately came to take Arielle, and the adults rested on the curbside.

"There's glass in your foot," Gabriella said matter-of-factly, watching him wince as he scooted aside for her. "You need to get that checked out."

"I'm fine, it's just a little bit," he insisted, peering at the blood that trickled down his skin, staining the cuff of his pants. A clear piece of window stuck out, similarly discolored with red liquid that made her cringe. Troy sighed. "Maybe I should call over some help."

She smiled. "Yes, maybe you should."

The silence that crept between them was uncomfortable, but both were still suffering from the echoes of the flames, and the falling woodwork, and the sputtering embers. He was patient as he waited for medical assistance; she was graceful as she stood up and went to see her son. "Harris?" she asked. He was sitting next to Arielle, who was receiving oxygen from a tank through a tube. His arm lay around her shoulder.

Both children looked up; Arielle was crying again. She took the oxygen mask off her face and stood up—slowly, but she knew which two feet to put in front of her. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to make a nice breakfast. The stove flames, they were so high—"

It didn't matter to Gabriella. She shook her head and smiled. "Don't be sorry. I've been looking for a way to get out of Sampson and never had the heart to sell this old place. It's all gone, nothing to do but move forward," she said, as Harris rose. "Now you both should probably be going home now."

Troy came up behind her. "The paramedics have us in the clear. They think it's just shock—no major burns."

"And your foot?" Gabriella asked, turning to him for a second.

"Bandaged and fine," he replied, half-smiling. There wasn't a lot to say now. That awkward silence followed you places.

"Dad," Harris said. "If it's okay with you, I want to go with Mom. That is, if she's coming to New York."

It hadn't occurred to her where a fire would take her, but Gabriella thought it made sense. "No other home in the world for me but there. And maybe Albuquerque," she added, eyes sparkling. Even in the worst-case scenario, you always had memories to look back on.

_The next evening, Gabriella and Harris are staying in the Danforth guest room._

The bunk bed was supposed to be for the twins that Taylor always wanted to have but never got around to conceiving. She said she was a motherly type, but Chad was not all that paternal. Still, there was a bedroom in their household with spaceship wallpaper and a PlaySkool coloring table. Harris had tried to sit on the little plastic chairs, but his knees went well above the marker-safe artistic surface.

She had taken the bottom bunk, at first declaring that it was immature to want the top bunk, and then later admitting to a fear of heights. Thirty minutes after he figured she had fallen asleep, Harris asked his mother if she was awake. The bunk bed shifted, and Gabriella answered, "Yes."

"What do you think Dad and Arielle are doing right now?" he asked.

"Probably watching 'The Flight of the Conchords' on HBO's vintage channel."

"What's '_The Flight of the Conchords_'?" He made it sound like it was a documentary on street animals.

"A vintage HBO show," she answered practically, but was smiling at the glow in the dark stars Taylor had tacked to the ceiling. "Hey, Harris? Did you room look like this when you were little?" It was a terrible question for a mother to be asking her son, but curiosity got the best of her.

His voice glowed with happiness. "No, the wallpaper was cowboys and PlaySkool was actually Tonka. But close enough. I had the glow in the dark stars."

She lifted her arm to reach up for one of stars, picking it off the plaster so she could hold it in her palm, and have it close to her heart whenever, in the future, she need to be reminded that childhood was never all that far away.


	22. Meantime

A/N- Still debating where the story will go

A/N- Wow, this took me a month to publish. Can you ever forgive me? I've had an odd last four weeks. Summertime better get here soon, minus the hundred-degree weather. -love- Desireé

P.S. I have come to notice that in my chapters, text will start and then stop, and either start again or new text will come up. The starting-and-stopping text that is random is deleted material; so, ignore it. :)

Chapter Twenty-Two, Meantime

_Ten out of ten for a race already run_

_Bleeding the world cause you can't figure out what's wrong_

_So come back down from your daydream high_

_Lost for words when you sympathize_

_There's a million ways to believe you tried_

_Well I'm—unsatisfied_

_-'Unsatisfied', Nine Black Alps_

--

New York was like a breath of fresh air, surprisingly enough. Gabriella was unaware of how much she missed the flurry of taxis and change of season. Everything came back to her as if she had never left; this amused Harris.

"You look like a tourist who doesn't speak English," he pointed out as they strolled through Central Park. It had been only a few days since they arrived at the Danforth home, but they had left again early in the morning to spend time in the city with a curfew at a late evening hour. "First trip to America, eh?" He rolled his Rs and laughed at the way it sounded.

"Don't make fun of me, I haven't been here in over thirteen years," she said indignantly, pushing him a little bit with a sort of sadness she had not witnessed before. They resided on a bench and watched a dog walker pass with too many dogs; a woman embellished by a baby bump strolling along with an empty stroller; two teenagers, the girl walking ahead of the boy angrily. None of these scenes particularly endearing to him, Harris examined his palm, which had blistered from the hot doorknob of the shop in Sampson—a scar by which he could remember everything.

"You left without me because you didn't think you could take care of me, right?"

The question was unescorted by anger or disdain, for which she was relieved. He still just wanted to know. "I don't really know why I left. And I don't know why I left without you; but I know what I didn't come back. A new lifestyle would have been too hard on you—you would have been a miserable two-year-old."

And then the bomb dropped: "I'm a miserable fifteen-year-old."

She sat up and her eyes widened. "What? What do you mean, you're miserable?" Gabriella inquired, turning to him with an almost impatient tone. "How could you possibly be miserable?"

But even as she asked herself that, she knew the reason was clearly that he had been quiet for thirteen years of his life, silent even when he had questions about his mother, trying to make other people happy before he thought of himself. It was a selfless thing to do, but she couldn't find it in herself to admire that.

**TYWY**

_"Well, I guess this is goodbye."_

_Firefighters were bustling around the site, which had been reduced to nothing but black muck, lumped together with survived wood and other now-useless objects. Gabriella stood awkwardly, still debating whether to be grateful that the shop was finally gone, or upset because all of her possessions were now incinerated._

_Crap, she couldn't remember if there was fire insurance._

_"Where are you guys going to stay?" Troy asked, not very capable of concealing his obvious curiosity._

_"I'll see Taylor and Chad, out in Westchester. It's time I start giving people a call," Gabriella replied. She nodded and put an arm around Harris. "I'll have him back by the weekend, I promise."_

_So this was how it would be. Custody issues, driving to and from the city, picking up and dropping off, forgetting items and having to go back to get them. It was part of a process Gabriella had used to believe would never be a part of her life—how wrong a person could be. How wrong she turned out to be; motherhood was everything she could dream of and more._

_Arielle said nothing, and no one prompted an input from her. Troy nudged her for a moment, to see how she would react, but got nothing so much as a nod out of her. A temporary mute by choice, he thought. It wasn't desirable, but she'd been through too much._

_"I'll see you Friday, then," Harris said, half-hugging his father. He kissed Arielle's forehead and murmured something to her. The corners of her lips turned upward vaguely, and Troy was jealous to know he was unable to do this: he didn't know how to make his own daughter smile. The real problem, though, was more that he himself did not know _how_ to smile._

_Gabriella was inching toward the car she was borrowing from Adeline to make the drive upstate. How could he say good-bye to her?_

_"Call me, okay?" Three simple words that had her head spinning for the entire trip to Westchester; in spite of her dizzy state, Gabriella Montez was almost afraid to admit that Troy Bolton, who'd grown up to be a father of two and an all-too-serious person for the guy he was in high school, still had some magic left in him._

**TYWY**

For two weeks, Harris was on loan between his parents. He barely spoke to his sister, who kept herself holed up in her room again and this time, with good reason. His father did not try to get her to come out anymore; mainly, he was drawing again. None of the illustrations made a lot of sense—there was a dissolving hourglass in the middle of a puddle that reflected hateful words, trees that had roots on the top and branches on the bottom, and children's building blocks set ablaze by a match that read 'Trauma'. Whatever was stirring in his mind was being translated onto paper again, but there are only so many drivers who will notice a desperate hitchhiker on the side of the road.

Since they had come back to town, Cassandra Noel had been trying (but failing) to make everything return to normal, and now that Arielle knew the truth, the supermodel also tried mother-daughter bonding time, which was massively unsuccessful. Rumors resurfaced around magazines that the marriage was on the rocks, and it most certainly was. Not even Harris, who may or may not have been the peacekeeper in every situation, wanted to do anything, so she left.

When Gabriella heard this from her uncharitably apathetic son, she knew that she had to go see him. "You're parking?" Harris asked skeptically as she stopped the car along the curbside. "I can walk up by myself, it's not that hard."

"I want to talk to your father," she explained, straight-faced. He paused a moment with a defeatist expression, before stepping onto the sidewalk.

The elevator ride was awkward, quiet, and Gabriella had the itching feeling that her visit was long overdue. She watched the third floor hallway materialize in front of here and Harris guided her to the loft she knew too well. _The family has too much history here_, Troy had once said. She wasn't sure how she knew this, but she agreed wholeheartedly as Harris stuck his keys in the lock and turned the knob.

"I'm home," Harris half-called, dropping his bags at the door and kicking off his shoes. It was a habit he seemed to form as a consequence of his father. "And Mom's here, so make sure everybody's decent." He spoke as if there was a multitude of people around, but Harris well aware that Arielle would be in her room and Troy would be somewhere, busying himself with useless chores and such.

Indeed, he was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. Harris cleared her throat and Troy turned around, a nondescript theme wandering across his face. But when his eyes met Gabriella's, something clicked. "You're here."

She opened her mouth apprehensively and looked down at the floor. "I wanted to talk about stuff," she confessed to the tiles.

"Like, with me?" Troy asked; the knife was poised in his hand mid-carrot slice. Harris raised his eyebrows before his father coughed, dropping his kitchen utensils and wiping his palms on his jeans. "Well, yeah, of course. Um, did you want to go for a walk?"

"Yes." _For a long time_.

**TYWY**

The wind picked up as the pair stepped out, Troy pulling his hood over his head and Gabriella tugging on her scarf. Nothing was said at first; once in a while he would look at her, and find her staring at him, and then they'd both blush and turn away, hoping the cold air would be reason enough for the red cheeks. "It's like riding a bicycle," Gabriella said eventually, nodding in his direction, and then at the urban lifestyle around them. "I don't know how I ever got along in Sampson."

He nodded and said nothing for a minute. "How's Chad and Taylor?"

"They're fine, just fine. They really were speechless when they saw me; I felt like I was going to cry. It's been kind of emotional but it's nice to see old faces again," she replied. "How's your foot? Still bandaged?" Before he could say anything, his phone rang, and Gabriella busied herself window-shopping in Neiman Marcus.

Troy flinched when he answered, not bothering to look at the Caller ID. "She has been in town for _fifteen days_ and you didn't even _think_ to tell me?" Sharpay squealed. "This is like the biggest news since the latest Brangelina baby and you mention _nothing_ to me? Not even a BlackBerry memo?"

With a glance at Gabriella, Troy found himself smiling. "Oh, sorry, Sharpay. I guess I've been busy lately; Arielle's taken to being a hermit and with Harris gone half the time I feel a little vacant. And then there's Cassandra."

At that moment, Sharpay wasn't feeling so loud or proud or magnificent. Her end of the call was quiet, before she finally said, "I'm sorry, Troy."

He shook his head, knowing she couldn't see the somewhat cross look on his face. "Don't apologize, she and I were doomed from the beginning."

"What about you and Gabriella?"

There was no pretty way to put it; a fairytale ending always had an expiration date, and they were both full-grown people with children to consider and jobs to pursue. Below his feet, initials had been impressed into what was once wet sidewalk cement. Of course, the initials did not read _TB + GM_. They were a little hard to read, but he thought he saw _LS + PS_. Well, maybe _those_ people were happy.

"Troy? I want to come see you guys. It's been too long since our younger days," Sharpay said gently, and he knew then she did not smoke. One day, Troy decided, she would make some amazing parent—better than he could hope to be.

"Come meet us down by the pizza parlor near the loft. I'm sure Gabriella will be happy to see you," he told her, and hung up.

Gabriella tore herself away from the beautiful clothing behind the glass and tugged on her trench coat a little bit tighter. "Everything okay? Who was that?"

"You'll see," he said with an idle grin. "Now, come on, you wanted to talk to me. I'm listening."

Whatever it is she wanted to say sure was taking a long time. Troy kept his patience, and finally she asked, "What do you think makes someone a bad person? The things they do, or the things they do not do?"

He had not expected anything like this. Something more along the lines of _I'm lonely, come back to me_, or _Harris doesn't deserve this, we should get married_ might have sufficed, but more realistically: _How can we fix this?_ Troy thought about how to answer her question, "I think it's more the resulting outcome of the decisions, or nonexistent ones. Like the way a bad call can mess up someone's reputation, or a lazy resolution only worsens the problem. But then again, it takes a lot to be qualified under 'bad person'. I think we've both been saved from making the cut, if it's any consolation."

She smiled dryly. "Not really, but it's nice to hear it said out loud, just in case."

Troy stopped on a corner, waiting for the Walk sign to permit them across the boulevard. "You know, I've been thinking about you these last couple of weeks; a lot, actually. One day I picked up a pencil and started sketching, and somehow your face came onto the paper. I got your eyes wrong, though. They weren't smiling."

Cars stopped and they were allowed to the other side of the street with a mass of other people. Gabriella sniffled in the cold wind and shrugged. "I don't know, I haven't truly smiled for a long time now. And even if I have, it's a quick second before I go back to scowling."

"Your smile hasn't changed, at least. It's the same as it was in high school," Troy said. "Sometimes when you don't put anything to use, it fades. You prove that theory wrong."

And then, her lips turned upward, and her eyes glinted for just a moment as Gabriella cocked her head back at him, hair falling in front of her face briefly. "You like being a dad?"

"Yes. Do you like being a mom?"

"It's still new to me, but yes. It's one of the better things I have done in life."

They found themselves in the pizza parlor near the loft, where Sharpay Evans stood, arguing with the employee behind the counter about something. "I give up!" she cried cynically, and turned around. Her angst disbanded as soon as she saw Gabriella, though, and she ran to hug the stranger. "You're _back!_ You're back! I can't believe it, oh my God, you look great, how is everything, where've you been this entire freaking time?"

They sat for hours over greasy cheese and burnt crust, laughing and resuming a lifestyle that they had left a while ago. Troy sat opposite Sharpay, who sat next to Gabriella. They were missing three particular people, but there was time to get them. Maybe tomorrow would be dismal again, but in the meantime, happiness could be salvaged.

**TYWY**

The loft was dark when Troy and Gabriella came inside, Sharpay behind them while she talked on her cell phone with Ryan. "Okay, get your butt over here some time, because this is probably _the_ most interesting thing that has happened to us in, like, a year. Yes, she's staying! What do you think, she's going to run off again? God, you were given a brain, Ry, _use_ it. Yeah, yeah, hugs and kisses. Bye." She plopped down on the couch and turned on the lamp next to the armrest. "Where'd you guys go?"

No response from either Troy or Gabriella. Sharpay grinned puckishly and reoccupied to the television, assuaged now that two people, meant to be, had found their way back in the end.

**TYWY**

The fire escape supported two people, looking up at the dim image of the moon above them. "I got a call from my friend in Sampson," Gabriella said. "She found some of my stuff in the fire. I guess it survived. I'm going to drive down tomorrow, to get everything. Can you keep Harris for a little longer? I need to tie up some loose ends there."

"I'll go with you," Troy said quickly. She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to."

Gabriella considered this a moment before agreeing, resting her feet against the fire escape's railing. "You know, I didn't mean for anything to happen: Cassandra leaving, and all that. I wanted you to know that I have been battling guilt this entire afternoon, now. Harris told me like it wasn't a big deal, but I thought I should see you."

"Just because I take pictures of people and she's one of those people that gets photographed doesn't mean we're supposed to be happily married like Ricky and Lucy. I'm fine being just a father for now. But you're a nice addition to everything."

A/N- That's a really terrible ending but it's late and I just need to have something published before I tear my hair out over the plot. -love- Desireé


	23. Power Outage

A/N- Certainly it hasn't been more than a month since I last updated

A/N- Certainly it hasn't been more than a month since I last updated? I'm so sorry about this; I've had school and end-of-the-year stuff on my mind. Well, in any light thank you for sticking with me. This story is taking me forever and I have really no idea how to end it. But your support means everything. -love- Desireé

Chapter Twenty-Three, Power Outage

_This town is colder now; I think it's sick of us_

_It's time to make our move, I'm shakin' off the rust_

_I've got my heart set on anywhere but here_

_I'm staring down myself, counting up the years_

_-'Stop and Stare', OneRepublic_

The city lights were flickering early that morning, as if the street lamps were too tired to turn on all the way. In the middle of the night, Troy had found his way to the fire escape again, staring out at the sluggish activity going on in New York. Somehow, out here was more comfortable than the floor of his bedroom; the still air reminded him of right around when Gabriella left. Only the silence in the darkest hour of the day could clear his head.

In six hours, they would leave for Sampson. He offered to drive the Range Rover, to which she responded softly but pleasantly, "That would be fine."

He felt the pressure of the brick wall against his back, as he stretched his arms up toward the next level of the fire escape. "What's worse than leaving?" he asked himself, before his heartbeat increased rapidly as Sharpay appeared next to him, her knees brought to her chest as she sat to face him. "Jesus, Evans, you scared the hell out of me."

"Oh, my apologies," she said with a smile. "Couldn't sleep?"

Troy shook his head, and Sharpay bit her lower lip abidingly. "I think I suffer from insomnia," she sighed after a moment. "It's kind of annoying, because during the day I'm a wreck without my coffee, but at night I secretly enjoy the peace and quiet. It gives me some alone time, which I figure everyone deserves once in a while. Funny how we can't seem to function during the day, when the world is at its craziest."

A car alarm went off, the bleating kind that changed tones every few seconds. Troy grimaced; these were the most annoying to him. But he changed his focus and looked at the blond woman, the only company for the moment (not that he minded). "Why do you think we didn't work out in high school, Shar? I mean as a couple. You remember sophomore year. The rumors circulated, we chose to ignore them."

"One word: Gabriella." They both laughed and Sharpay shrugged, saying, "I don't know. Maybe we're too alike. Can't sleep, can't function without someone beside us—don't look at me like that, I know you can't stand to be alone for more than a few days—and can't seem to be the heartbreakers. And you know, Bolton, as well as I do, that those who don't break hearts will always get their hearts broken."

**TYWY**

The morning after, Sharpay waddled around the apartment, dressed in a puffy bathrobe and silk pajama bottoms, with über-expensive faux fur slippers, ushering Troy and Gabriella out of the house as they tried to leave the loft self-assured. "We're a phone call away, okay?" Troy said to Ari and Harris, who were watching their struggle with the drama queen from the sofa. "We'll be back in just a couple of says. Behave, all right? If Sharpay calls complaining about—"

The blonde harrumphed and clinked her nails against her java mug. "Ahem, Lucy and Ricky? We'll be fine," she insisted. "I'm an excellent babysitter, better than you could ever wish to get at some agency full of grannies." Sharpay coughed dramatically on her fingernails and rubbed them against the front of her robe, earning a slight eye roll from Troy.

"Be good, and enjoy the last of winter vacation while you can," Gabriella said, ignoring Sharpay as she kissed both Harris and Arielle on the heads. She was tempted to say 'I love you' but then again, she was only the mother to one of them. Not to mention she'd only known both of these children for, say, a few weeks. So instead, she smiled weakly and placed a hand on their shoulders somewhat emptily.

The moment Sharpay shut the door behind the departed couple, a smile graced her face and she shimmied with a slight touch of exaggeration. "Time to party!"

This provoked no reaction from either Arielle or Harris, so Sharpay threw up her hands in defeat and plopped down in between them. "Well, what do you suggest we do then? I'm your cool aunt babysitter for the weekend, and I'm also rolling in dough—I mean, like, money. Not cookie dough. That would be disgusting. Yuck. Anyway, I've got extra cash on hand and a mind as blank as a canvas. Oh, that didn't exactly come out right, either. Damn it, I can't talk today—"

"How about," Harris interrupted, turning gently to Sharpay, "we go to the movies?"

"…So we can sit and not have to talk," Sharpay finished with a forbearing nod. "Well, that's fine with me! Hey, maybe I'll call Ryan to come with us. He keeps nagging at me to get together, and this way, I'll get in a good time at the theater and family bonding all in one bit."

As she sashayed away to the phone, Arielle cleared her throat softly and looked at Harris. "You think we'll be like that at their age?"

"Not a chance in hell," he grinned.

**TYWY**

In the passenger seat of the Range Rover, Gabriella had drifted off for a moment. The nightmare she had was freakish, and unreal; the loft was flooded with children, all of them no older than four or five. As she ran through the rooms, trying to keep track of them all, she noticed one small boy standing on the outside of the fire escape. "Hey!" she had yelled to him. "I don't think you should stand there!"

"I'll be fine," the boy had replied. His hair turned a dark color, and his face grew familiar as he fell backwards and collided with the concrete below.

A scream erupted from Gabriella, as she ran down to the street thinking, _In dreams, I can never scream in a crisis. I always lose my voice_. And then, Troy to the rescue—he woke her up.

"Are you okay? You keep whining, kind of like you're crying," he said, pulling the car to the side of the highway.

Gabriella blinked awkwardly, stretching a tiny bit before shaking her head. "I was just having a dream; a really bizarre dream. I'm fine, though. Thank you."

Try as she might, she could not fall asleep again after that. Meanwhile, neither could think of any good conversation topics; Troy had about a thousand questions to ask her, mostly revolving around the day she left New York City _without_ Harris, and Gabriella had about a thousand answers.

"Did you ever come back to the city?" he finally said, softly at first. She wasn't sure if she had heard correctly, but when he looked her way, Gabriella knew.

"Almost," she whispered. And then her voice grew louder, "Harris would have been five. I missed him so much, and I was curious as to how things were going. I also—I also wanted to see the new baby girl. But hysterics got the better of me at the Jersey border. I kept telling myself you'd be there, waiting for me to come back. But I knew you had other things on your mind. Like being a father. And making a living."

He sighed, so tired of her modesty. "You've _always_ been on my mind, Gabriella," he told her, keeping a straight face as he watched the road. She knew he was telling the truth this way.

Until they reached a diner for a food stop, conversation did not come up again. When Troy parked, Gabriella unbuckled her seatbelt and hopped onto the pavement. "I'm in the mood for a root beer," she said out loud, and Troy gave her a cheeky but endearing thumbs-up.

"We'll get two," he said as he opened the front door for her. They chose a free booth and sat opposite one another. Troy was playing with the salt and peppershakers before a waitress came to take their order. To his surprise, Gabriella spoke for the both of them. He didn't mind.

"Two cheeseburgers, two root beers, and an extra order of fries. Hold the pickles on one of the burgers," she said decidedly. Troy raised his eyebrows as he smiled, while the waitress penciled in their food and walked toward the kitchen.

"You remembered I hate pickles," he pointed out.

Gabriella shrugged. "Sometimes things just stick with you."

After that, they talked about random things, mostly involving Harris, and sometimes Arielle. Troy told her about school, and first words, and academic accomplishments. "What," Gabriella began, hesitantly, "What did Harris do for Mother's Day?"

"He made April a card to send to her. Since her last name was Bolton, all the kids in his class assumed she was his mom," Troy replied, staring at the salt he had poured into his palm obliviously. "Ari made them for you, though, when she was old enough to write out full sentences. Since they were at the same school, everyone asked Harris if they had two different moms, which was essentially true, they just had the women mixed up."

She gulped, and glanced up at him ruefully. "And Ari kept the cards?" she asked, her head now heavy like it was made of lead.

"I think so. She wouldn't have thrown them away," Troy conceded. He smiled gratefully at the waitress when she brought them their plates and picked up a French fry. "You know, sometimes I wish that we'd never have gotten pregnant so young. We were careless, and of course we got Harris out of it, but I feel like if we were having kids _now_, things would be different."

Beyond question they would be. And she thought then of what Harris had told her: _I'm a miserable teenager_. "Do you love him?"

"Harris? Of course, Gabriella! He's my—" The feeling of confidence in his bones weakened. Troy bit the inside of his cheek. "He's our son. I love him with every piece of me. Why would you even ask me that?" However, he was slightly relieved she dared bring up such a sensitive topic. He was sincerely hoping that maybe, if he took a moment, the answer would just roll off his tongue. But nothing was ever that easy.

**TYWY**

"Well, you nixed the movie idea, so we have to replace it. How about we go shopping?"

"We've already got clothes."

"Then shoes, you can never have enough shoes."

"No thanks."

"Fine. Let's go sightseeing. I have lived in this city for, well, God knows how long and I have never taken a tour on those double-decker buses."

Finally, after a long conversation that consisted of nothing, Harris and Arielle rolled their necks just enough so they could glance at Sharpay and silently say, "As if we're supposed to care?"

"Really, Sharpay, thanks for making the effort but we're fine here. The TV is—" And, because whoever controlled the universe could not help themselves at that very moment, the television set went black and the phone beeped a quick death on the sofa's end table. The power was out.

"Oh, look at that! It's a sign! A sign that says, 'Go shopping with your aunt Sharpay because she's rich and basically is begging you to spend the money.'" Sharpay batted her eyelashes convincingly and Harris frowned.

"We don't have many other options, Ari."

"Yeah, well, I think I'll just take a nap. Have fun, guys."

Sharpay stared after her as she slumped down the hall. "Who rained on her parade?"

Harris shook his head. "If I told you it was basically my dad and mom, you'd do that adult thing and say something like, 'Oh, children are so hard on their parents these days!' which is dumb, because I know it's always been like that, and it will always be like that."

"So, Troy and Gabriella rained on her parade."

He sighed and nodded. It seemed if it weren't his parents, it would be the next people to come into—or leave—Arielle's life.

**TYWY**

After she had asked that question, Gabriella immediately regretted it. She wanted to know the truth after Harris dropped the news of his state of mind, but her imposition created an awkward atmosphere, and they left the diner sullenly, the tip weak and the signature on the receipt unsteady. "Do _you_ love him?" Troy mumbled on their way to the car.

"Why would you turn the question on me? You know the answer."

"Actually, I don't. You left, after all, without him. I mean, I know, you were mad at me. But Harris really did nothing. Except for just that one little thing."

This tone of voice he used, the way he somehow had been hurt by her and therefore was trying to redirect the pain somewhere else, reminded Gabriella of their high school lives. She stopped and stiffened, feeling his hot breath push on her neck as he came to stand behind her. "That's not fair."

"What? I know you said after we graduated from high school how you always wanted us to be honest with one another. But you weren't honest even then. I heard you talking to your mom one day on the phone. How you'd be in college if it weren't for_ this baby_. If it weren't for me. And you left shortly thereafter. Only to return, then leave again."

Frustration—with not only him, but herself as well—kept her from turning around and coming to face his truthfulness. "That's not fair, Troy," she said, her voice fracturing in an indignant tone of anger.

He put his hand on her shoulder and gripped it tightly, willing himself to control his words. "I kept quiet. What was I supposed to say? Sorry you're stuck here, with me? I couldn't do anything about your unhappiness, and when I asked you to let me in, you didn't respond with anything but abandonment."

Gabriella inhaled, her breath erratic. She turned around and saw the steam cloud puff in front of her face as she spoke. "You can't tell me that, Troy!" she cried, her hands balled up against his chest. "That isn't fair to me, because you never let me in after I came back. You never were the same! And that's why I left again!"

Nothing was quite as hurtful as hearing you are at fault for something. Troy swallowed and said lowly, "You didn't come back. I went to go get you. I had to go to Albuquerque to save my family. And look how that turned out." He held his car keys, pressing the alarm button for no more than two seconds before shutting it off again. "I waited for you for those days, just sitting in an empty apartment. I waited for a phone call, for an email, anything to tell me you'd come back. And I never got one. So I had to go and get you, and you said you missed me, because we didn't get to celebrate St. Patrick's Day together. Well, if I remember correctly, the last holiday we celebrated Christmas, and about thirteen years too late." He stormed toward the car, and she followed, blocking his pathway like he had blocked hers the day she left.

"Don't tell me that, Troy! Because you know what? I'm _trying_—at least that's something, right?" Gabriella shot back, eyes a tearful red as she tried to hold back tears that probably didn't even belong to her. "I have never felt any more horrible these last few weeks, getting to know two gorgeous children with amazing souls, one of whom isn't even mine, and I know I'm a terrible mother. I know! But I came back! Finally, you know? And maybe Arielle and Harris had to come get me. But maybe that's just it! Maybe all these years, I just wanted to be found, okay? Because I discovered myself the moment I left the second time. I found just what I was: a mother and a lover. After that, though, no one came looking for me, so I didn't go back. I couldn't go back after that."

Surprise burnt an image into his head forever. He stood there, breathing through his nose, grasping the car keys. "That night, at the bar," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers, "I tried to find in Cassandra what I knew was in you. But she couldn't be a mother, and never a lover. She never knew… how to love."

And at that moment, she felt the car keys dig into the skin at the back of her jaw line, as he held her for the thousandth time and kissed her again, trying to fix what may not have been broken, but rather gone.


	24. Downpour

A/N- Happy Fourth of July to those of you who celebrate it. By the way, this Monday was the official one-year mark of my membership on FanFic! I wish I could have posted this chapter on that anniversary, but the internet, of course, was not working. At least it's restored now!

Okay—so I've officially decided there will be two more chapters after this. And then it'll be done! Thanks for sticking with this, everyone. It's been a big roller coaster writing this, and you guys kept with me. So _thank you!_ -love- Desireé

P.S. To all those who offered and/or gave help and advice on where to go with the story, thank you, as well! I finally know what to do with _TYWY_. You guys have been great.

Chapter Twenty-Four, Downpour

_We are one, we are_

_Two people inside one body_

_Our own disgrace_

_Emotional champ so sorry_

_No sleep tonight_

_Only sweet reminders_

_Saying keep tonight_

'_Cause it's all I wanna do_

_-'Emotional Champ', New Buffalo_

"Hey, baby doll, come here," said Sharpay, sinking into the couch. Harris had gone to take a shower, and so she saw this as a chance to have some one-on-one conversation, something with which she knew Gabriella would have a hard time. The blond woman opened her arms and Arielle crawled toward her. "Now. Tell your not-really-but-totally-should-have-been godmama what's on your mind."

Arielle frowned as she played with the tennis bracelet encompassing Sharpay's skinny wrist. "I miss my father. I don't think I even want a mom anymore. I've got Harris, and Dad, and you were always a good role model for me. I didn't see you so often, but you never minded when I tried to talk to you once you were around." She sniffled for a minute and clenched her teeth, gripping the bracelet. _Calm down_.

"Oh, Ari, darling, I'm glad to be here for you. And of course you miss you daddy; while I don't really want to admit it, I miss him, too. He's a good friend, and he's a good parent." Sharpay smiled at the top of her almost-goddaughter's head. "Do you miss Gabriella?"

After a short pause, Arielle replied, "I feel terrible for causing the fire, but that picture perfect image I used to have of a whole family…" She drifted off for a moment. "I just want my dad back. But he really loves her, I know. And it's hard to handle, because before I never thought about losing my father. The idea of getting my mom back—whoever she was—seemed better as an idea, than an actual reality."

A pitter-patter formed outside, as the rain continued its winter schedule. Sharpay hummed for a second. "I can't lie to you, honey. For a long time, you were the only girl in Troy's world, and that's the way he wanted it. Then your mother's career steadied and she came back, and it was only a little different, because it would take a million armies to get your daddy to give you up. He never really loved Cassandra, not the way he loves you… But Gabriella was his first time, practically his first important _everything_, and that's different."

_At one point, she was his queen. He loved her with the fragile heart of a vulnerable basketball star, and she loved him in the exact same way, but one day, she left, a plot twist that had never been written. And then, a new queen took her place. She was a young royalty, with a less-than-princely brother, and for a little while, this queen made the king forget about her predecessor. For a little while._

"In high school, they did everything together. She was his equivalent, his parallel, so when she was gone, a part of Troy was, too. It's like when one twin feels pain, so does the other. It was the simple math of their relationship. And your father, as much as he loves you, has missed her all these years. How could he have not? But if you're afraid that you're going to lose him to Gabriella, baby doll, you have nothing to worry about."

To stop the sentimentality flow, Harris interrupted as he walked back down the hall in a t-shirt and pajama shorts, shaking his hair out with a towel. Arielle turned to see him, and she immediately removed herself from Sharpay's reach. As her brother sat next to her, turning the TV on again, the young girl turned to her and half-smiled. It was her way of thank you, which a much older and less dramatic Sharpay received somewhat tiredly.

The new lobby clerk buzzed the loft, and after looking at both Harris and Arielle (both of whom now sat perfectly undisturbed on the couch in front of the TV), the woman coughed and stood up to answer the message. "Yes?" she asked.

"Um, excuse me, Ms. Evans, I understand you're attending to Mr. Bolton's apartment over the weekend?" the clerk said meekly. Sharpay confirmed this. "Well, then you must know Ms. Noel—she tells me she used to live here, but I feel slightly uncomfortable letting her upstairs without your consent. She says she has something important to drop off."

This didn't come as a surprise, but Sharpay still found herself gaping at the wall for a minute. "Uh, send her up. Thank you, um—well, whatever your name is. _Gracias_, señor Clerk man." There went four years of high school language class. Sharpay glanced around toward the teenagers and cleared her throat, wondering just how this would go about. How do you say _awkward_ in Spanish?

There was a knock, and she answered the door. "Shar," Cassandra said, a little flustered. "I knew the lobby clerk mentioned your name on the phone, but still, I didn't expect to see you here. You're not what I thought was the motherly type."

"You're one to talk," Sharpay sighed in return, leaning against the door and eyeing what the supermodel held: a manila folder, with papers peaking out. "That the divorce settlement?"

"Just needs his signature, and then it's done." Cassandra rocked on her heels and pursed her blushing pink lips. "I also wanted to see Arielle, if she was here. Troy and I haven't discussed custody issues yet, and, well, I thought I would just talk to her. Really, I don't know what to tell her. The first chance I have to be a real mom, and I'm at a loss."

"Trust your instinct. Something's got to come to mind when you see her face." Actually, Sharpay had no idea if that was true; she'd never had a daughter. In fact, her only childcare requirements had been her puppies, and now Milan took primary care of them. "Arielle Delaney Bolton! You have a visitor."

The young girl turned around, and her face flashed like the spitting image of Cassandra, with the touch of Troy's blue eyes. She was beautiful, and she didn't even know it; her eyebrows crinkled when she saw who stood in the doorway. "Oh. Well, I guess it's about time."

To explain what Cassandra Noel really meant to say to her daughter, the prized child she was made to admire from afar, would be like trying to translate a made up language. She stammered and hesitated and was on the verge of tears. Finally, in the hallway, she got off her pumps and knelt down to come face to face with Arielle, taking her hands. "You are a graceful young girl, you know that? You're elegant, and stunning, and you have a good soul. And now, you've every right to be mad at me, because as much as I loved you, you would never be able to love me back the same way. And that's my fault. But I wanted to know if… If you would come with me, next week, when I go to Europe. I know school starts in a few days, but—"

"No," Arielle interrupted, and she saw the disappointment in her mother's face. "You can't ask me that. Not now, not after all this. This whole time I wanted a mom, because I thought my dad couldn't make up for what I was missing in a mother. But that's not true. My dad's been everything he could be, and I never gave him the benefit of the doubt.

"You brought me into the world, but we're two different people, and as much as we would want to bond because it's what's expected of a reunited mom and daughter team, it's too late now. So go to Europe, be happy, and you'll have your opportunity to start over. I'll be okay here. It's my home." And from the doorway, Harris and Sharpay smiled sadly, knowing that after a lifetime of letdown, no one could ever really be okay.

**TYWY**

_And at that moment, she felt the car keys dig into the skin at the back of her jaw line, as he held her for the thousandth time and kissed her again, trying to fix what may not have been broken, but rather gone._

His hands were crushed underneath her weight as they slammed against the Range Rover, creating massive PDA for the passerby who either gave a shocked or disapproving look. Not that they cared, though. To quote Sharpay Evans, with old age came the inability to really give a damn.

Finally, though, Gabriella kissed Troy one last time and then pushed her hand against his collarbone, and broke away. She was breathing hard, looking at him with a disoriented gaze. "Somewhere else," she said. That was all he needed to hear.

They couldn't bring themselves to say anything in the car as she directed him to the shop. It was not much different than she remembered; it had only been a few weeks since they left. But reconstruction was already under way, thanks to kind-hearted Sampson citizens; the scorch marks of the outside were already concealed by new wood, in a more contemporary fashion. "Maybe the workers found your stuff," Troy said softly as he cut the engine. "Did they say where they'd leave it?"

"I don't think so. But, come on. It's the weekend; they aren't working. Everything has to be inside." She walked toward what used to be The Witching Hour, and braced herself for whatever she was about to face. The front door was open, the knob a fresh brass that cooled her heated fingertips. As she stood to look at the burned and renewed rooms, Troy came behind her and mumbled something reminiscent into her hair, his hands meandering around her waist.

She breathed out blissfully and reached up to curve her hand around his neck. "I've missed you," she said. "Do you think it's too corny that I'm hoping the stuff they found is the box of keepsakes I had?"

"We've always been corny," he pointed out. "Remember 'Breaking Free'?"

"It was only the cheesiest part of our relationship. Of course I remember," she said with a chuckle. Her eyes searched the area for things other than paint cans and brushes, finally pinpointing an old take-out box filled with little pieces of memory she was happy to see had survived. Mostly, though, they were malformed in some way: her wallet had been singed and so the credit cards stuck together, the moneybox she kept for emergencies had softened to a misshapen safe of semi-crisp dollar bills, and, without a doubt, there was a little melted plastic square with a distorted CD in the middle.

"Well, so much for the love songs. None of this stuff is really even saved. They better reimburse us for the gas money."

He shrugged at the melted compact disc. "That's okay. I remember ever single track on there." And then Troy turned her around toward him, to see one of her affectionate smiles. "Just so you know, I've missed you, too."

With every single piece of clothing that came off, with every moan or sigh that left them, there was a faint outcry of protest from the rest of the world. How could two people, meant to be as teenagers, reunite after years of turmoil as full-grown adults? Troy tugged on the single gold necklace draped over her chest, and kissed her again, until the chain broke and there was nothing left for her to hide behind: "There you are."

**TYWY**

Ryan Evans really hated the rain. The storm was ridiculous, and if he had the audacity to even carry an umbrella with him (and clash with his perfectly proportioned outfit), the wind would simply take it away, Mary Poppins style. By the time he reached the apartment building in which Troy Bolton lived, he only had to give the deferential lobby clerk a hostile glare and a grumble of, "Evans," as he was let inside.

He passed a tall, tanned blonde whose face was twisted with gloom as she cried and pushed past him as he exited the elevator. If there was someone around to gamble with him, he could bet he'd seen her somewhere in a magazine. Maybe Vogue. "Knock, knock," he said to the open door of the loft. "Kit-kats?"

His sister hopped up immediately from her spot at the kitchen counter and closed her eyes dramatically, fanning herself with her hand. "Oh, thank goodness, you're here. I was ready to pull my hair out, even in its rich and more-expensive-than-you-can-possibly-imagine glossiness. These children, they're practically extinct! Harris has zero motivation to move more than a few feet, and he's got no interest in anything even remotely related to his parents. Meanwhile, Arielle, bless her emo little heart, won't come out of that damn shell she's built around herself. I was _dying_ of boredom."

Ryan fake-smiled. "Oh, Shar, I'm so happy to entertain you whenever you call me, even when I'm this close to taking home a _really great date_."

"Heh, whatever, just call back Liberace or whoever you were canoodling with at the Thai place around the corner tomorrow. By the way, did you bring the chicken skewers with the peanut sauce like I asked?" For the first time since he arrived, Sharpay looked at him and raised her eyebrows. "Wow. You're soaked. And chicken skewer-less."

He blinked and wrinkled his nose. "I ordered so they would deliver, it's only three bucks more… And what is that repulsive smell?"

The stovetop sizzled, a fat steel-gray pot boiling on top. Sharpay leered unpleasantly. "Well, since you were running late with the Thai—which you ended up not having anyway—I thought I'd try that old stew recipe."

"_What_ old stew recipe?"

"You know… The one in the storybooks. Veggies, chicken broth, and, um, rice." Her shoulders went up, and then down; she pinched the cartilage bridge between her eyebrows, compressing an imaginary migraine.

"And I still wonder why none of Zeke Baylor's culinary skills rubbed off on you in high school."

A guilty eavesdropper, Harris appeared next to Ryan, and he picked up a cookbook next to the coffeemaker. "Hey, wait, cut her some slack. I recognize that recipe… It's in the C section in here—under crap." And then, a miracle happened: a smile transpired on his face.

"Because that made you happy, I will let that slide," Sharpay said, squinting one eye as she prodded a spatula against Harris' chest. She looked up and saw Arielle slinking away in the background. "Hey, Little Miss Broody, where are you headed?"

"I'm just going for a walk," Arielle replied, true to her word—doe-eyed and somber-faced. She stood at the door, her hand flat against the wood.

"In this rain?" Ryan asked dubiously, waving briefly to count for his hello.

Arielle shrugged. "I have a jacket. I just want to get some air. This apartment is stuffy. And it smells weird."

"I'll go with you," Harris offered, making means to get over the coat rack and pick up his windbreaker.

In spite of his efforts, Arielle shook her head. "No, actually, I'd rather be alone. Thanks, though."

She left with a gentle click of the door behind her. Harris turned around, eyebrows knitted together in frustration. "Girls have really irritating mood swings," he muttered impatiently. "I wish we could do something for her, but every time I hear she 'would rather be alone' I have to choke back an eye roll. You think she can come back from all of this?"

"We probably shouldn't be the ones to be asked," Sharpay said, running her fingers through her hair and inhaling the stale aroma of stew. "You know, Harris, when your parents get back—"

"—they'll probably have a big heart to heart with you guys," Ryan finished. He swallowed and looked out the window again. If possible, it only seemed to rain harder.

**TYWY**

Steam frosted the shop's windows, those that had been smothered in ash not too long before. They sat in what used to be the kitchen appliances section of the shop, she in a size-too-big sweater and he in his boxers. "Jesus, it's freezing in here."

"Really? I'm still pretty hot," Troy laughed, sitting next to her. She bumped him with her arm, and he looked at the broken gold chain in the middle of the room. "Maybe I'm ruining my good person credit to say this, but I really don't want to go back. At least, I don't want to leave this place. I'm fine right here, with you."

"You're such a big sap, Bolton," Gabriella teased, scrunching up her nose and grinning. "But in any light, we might just be called back to reality before we're ready."

He grumbled with a smile as he looked at her, tilting his head back against the wall and looking up at the black blemishes on the ceiling. "I know."

Her purse, left across the room near the saved items box, emitted a ring. "Oh, that's my phone," Gabriella said, but as she went to reach for it, Troy pulled her back. She sighed and kissed him briefly, murmuring, "I have to answer the call."

"If you want to get technical about it, you don't really _have_ to do anything."

The phone beeped, signaling the answering machine got it. "Ah, but on the contrary, Mr. Bolton, _we_ have to go back home and _I_ have to now get the missed call."

The word _home_ made him smile. "Brie, I'm sure it's nothing. Let it go to voicemail and then, we can take advantage of the time we have left," Troy said, walking over to pick her up in his arms. She smiled, but her eyes stayed empty, staring at the screen. The missed list read Harris' cell number.

"I wonder what he needs," she said after sharing this information with Troy. "Maybe I should call him back, just to know what's going on. A status update wouldn't hurt."

While the motherly tone in her voice was tantalizingly cute, Troy let her down and nodded. "Yeah, I guess it wouldn't hurt." He went to get his shirt as she checked her messages, but a chilling cry stopped him. Spinning around, he looked at her frantically, "What, what's wrong?"

Gabriella was a sinisterly pale color, and soon, Troy would be, too. She turned the speakerphone on, and replayed the message. Harris' hysterical voice sobbed and screamed in a spine-chilling manner, "_Mom, Dad, please! Pick up! I don't know what to do. It's Arielle. She's in the hospital—but I, I know she's dead._"

_We are one, we are_

_Shaping signs for nothing_

_We are done, we are_

_Forgetting this means everything_


	25. Leaving

A/N- One more chapter after this! :) -love- Desireé

Chapter Twenty-Five, Leaving

_She says wake up, it's no use pretending_

_I'll keep stealing, breathing her._

_Birds are leaving over autumn's ending_

_One of us will die inside these arms_

_Eyes wide open, naked as we came_

_One will spread our ashes 'round the yard_

_-'Naked As We Came', Iron and Wine_

Sometimes, in life, you experience something so rich, so heavy with emotion, and then later, when you try to remember what happened, your mind is blank. From the moment Troy heard _Arielle_ and _know_ and _dead_ all in the same sentence, he paled and lost his voice. Nothing registered in his head, no matter how loud Gabriella screamed. She didn't know what to do, either. When fear becomes reality, preparation has nothing to do with it. Nature had made it so, at such a time, you would have to rely on instinct.

Everything in Sampson was put on hold as Gabriella (both of them were fully clothed now) drove them to the train station and left the Range Rover in the parking lot. She had to shovel out a handful of money to get their tickets for the train sooner than later—she glared evilly at the snooty kiosk girl and remembered that karma could be a bitch. "Come on," she muttering, ushering a helpless Troy into a train cabin. "Just sit down. We need to breathe."

A stewardess came by with bubbly water, but Gabriella declined for the both of them. She inhaled slowly, and glanced at Troy, whose face was pressed into his hands. "Look, we don't know anything. Harris was hysterical, you heard him. He just was probably thinking out loud. We always fear the worst."

_But what if it _is_ the worst this time?_ Troy thought. He looked at her through his fingers and she tried to smile, tidbits of bygone happiness broken up across her complexion. "This is my fault. You know, like the universe is sending a message to me. I didn't pay attention. It's cause and effect, because of my lack of parenting. I don't think," he began to confess, and then paused, wondering why he chose this moment to acknowledge this, "I was ever ready to be a father."

"We didn't plan on having a kid at nineteen," he said, stretching his arms across the table. She placed her hands on either side of them. "Harris was an accident, and after you left, I placed the blame on him. Like, Jesus Christ, he looked so damn much like you, and I shut him out half the time. I thought I was making up for it by spoiling Ari with everything she wanted, but I didn't even do that. All she wanted was to know she had a mom. Why the fuck can't parents ever get things right the first time?"

It was a conversation that was long overdue. Gabriella finally laced her fingers through his and leaned forward. "Because we're not perfect," she sighed. "Because it's human nature to be selfish, or silly, or imprudent. Because you weathered a very long thirteen years as a parent, and you have grown up so much since then. You learned how to live life right along with Arielle."

Her answer did not satisfy him. "Gabriella," he said, "as much as I love you, I just don't want to… I don't want to talk right now, okay?"

The tiniest bit of blush rose on her cheeks, but she nodded and let go of his hands, concealing a smile inside her. He loved her. Well, of course he did, because he waited a damn long thirteen years, without her. Now he would only wait just a little bit longer, and then that happy ending could come. Arielle could not be dead. "Yes, she can be," Gabriella whispered, catching herself when she realized she said it loud enough that Troy could hear.

**TYWY**

Rain slapped the pavement and thunder rumbled somewhere across the sky. There was traffic build-up down the boulevard, but Harris could see a clearing in the road thirty, twenty, ten yards away from them. Please, let her be okay, he said in his head, seeing red lights flash not too far off. He felt dizzy. "Please, please, please," he whispered, praying for one of the first times in his life. "Tell me she's fine."

Behind him, Sharpay and Ryan panted as they caught up, stumbling slightly when they saw he had stopped. A police cruiser was blocking the street congestion; a man in a yellow vest was directing drivers down a side road. The cruiser's lights illuminated the rain, as one officer announced the scene over his radio with a solemn face. This was the first thing Harris saw, and then he turned to find he could not breathe. Another cop knelt beside Arielle's still body in the street, two fingers pressed beneath her chin. _He's looking for a pulse._

A silver compact car was parked askew a few feet, a horrified woman standing next to it, speaking inarticulately into her cell phone. Beside her stood a third policeman, holding a pen and a soggy notepad. "Folks, give us some room," he said, sweeping the crowd backwards single-handedly. Imaginary _Do Not Cross: Police Line_ tape wrapped the perimeter. Most people were polite about it, but Harris, now crying, shoved past them. The policeman eyed him. "Son—"

"That's my sister," Harris hiccupped, rubbing his eyes. Sharpay and Ryan watched from their respective places, revolted that they were unable to do anything. The policeman paid his respects and stepped aside as Harris said, "I want to see her."

The officer kneeling next to her heard his footsteps and turned around. "Captain, her pulse is weak, we have to—oh." He realized it was not the police chief. "Sorry, kid. She's pretty banged up. I can feel her heartbeat, but we have to get her to a hospital ASAP."

Arielle looked rather peaceful, eyes closed and face a clean slate, with no emotion. There was a fleeting glimpse of her old self, the one where she wasn't obsessed with finding Gabriella, or bringing her family together again. It was the girl who loved to go on late night runs for ice cream at the local liquor store, and who loved to hear stories, even if they were made up, and who loved to _be_ loved. That was the girl who lay before him, legs twisted grimly and shoulder looking as if it had been loosened for a while now.

Tears streamed down his face as he gathered her in his arms, all sorts of things bundled up into one. Her head tucked beneath his chin, he shivered and held her, watching paramedics come near with uncertainty. Harris wondered why he felt nothing inside her tick weakly against him. All was quiet. But it was his childhood innocence that had to challenge it; the normal adult version of Harris actually did know why. It was just safer to ask someone else the question because you're too afraid to answer on your own.

The ambulance left, and the police officers began their investigation with the woman who owned the silver car. A man came to stand beside Harris, who was staring at the blacktop where he tried to make sense of it, as if that were possible. "I'm sorry," the man said softly. "We were walking by, and my wife recognized her. She and your father have worked together before. I just thought you should have gotten down here right away."

Sharpay sidled next to him and smiled graciously. "Thank you for calling," she said, touching his arm briefly. He nodded and walked off in the other direction, leaving both Evans standing next to one another awkwardly. Sharpay finally rolled her eyes. "This is complete, fucking horseshit."

Shallowness seemed to evolve into shock and sympathy as she sat down in the wet street next to Harris. Her arms sealed him, and Sharpay became a sudden outlet for Harris' anger. He screamed against her, and Ryan noticed this was the first time he had truly let himself show vulnerability. It was a guy thing. "It's not supposed to be like this!" Harris cried, and the woman standing near the car looked terribly shamefaced. "I'm supposed to be there for her! I'm her goddamn older brother! What the hell—" He couldn't finish as he let himself sob into Sharpay's jacket, too breathless to say anything else.

The officer who had been checking her pulse came over and asked if they could move to the sidewalk. At this, Harris ducked from underneath Sharpay's grasp and collapsed on the cement walkway, clutching his cell phone. His mother's voicemail picked up, and he started crying more. "_Mom, Dad, please! Pick up! I don't know what to do. It's Arielle. She's in the hospital—but I, I know she's dead._"

The paramedics had confirmed nothing; the policemen had not said anything about death, but Harris had that awful premonition that she wouldn't come home. Sharpay covered her hand with her mouth, shell-shocked, and Ryan subtly took the reins. "Where to?" he asked gently. "The loft, or the hospital?"

"Hospital," Harris managed to say, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. Sharpay flagged down a cab, not second-guessing her saturated clothing. As Harris got inside the taxi, he prayed again, hoping someone was listening. All of the sudden, he was tired of being quiet.

**TYWY**

The train station was gloomy when they arrived. Troy was the first to get off; Gabriella had to literally sprint after him in order to keep up. Outside, he yelled, "Taxi!" and she barely made it to the car.

"Jesus Christ, Troy," she wheezed, pressing her head against the cool leather of the seat in front of her. "Everything—will—be—okay."

"We don't know that," he said sharply, and Gabriella blinked.

"We don't know _anything_," she snapped back. He sank guiltily into the car's interior and she looked out the window, piqued.

On the train, they had spoken shortly with Sharpay, and knew which hospital had taken in Arielle. The ER was busy, from the sound of the shouting in the background. "Um, we'll see you in a little bit?" Sharpay had said, wincing slightly.

"Yes," Gabriella had replied. Now she wished she had asked more questions. What happened? Where's Harris? How is Arielle?

"I'm sorry."

She whipped around to see Troy's rueful expression, and her anger melted. "I know. I am, too. I don't—I don't think I really know my own son well enough to have that same panic mode you have. That's a disaster in itself, but right now we'll be positive, okay?"

They went straight to the emergency room after asking a nurse where they would should find Harris & Co. "Oh, thank God," Sharpay murmured, sighing with relief when she saw them walking down the hall. That was when Troy started running, and then so did Gabriella.

Harris was trying not to cry, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve and sniffling. "I'm sorry, I should have—"

"You're supposed to protect her!" Troy shouted, taking his son by the shoulders. He could not locate the place in his heart where he had the strength to be so wrongly aggressive when addressing Harris, but anger and fear had reached their boiling points. "You are not supposed to let her go out on her own—in the _rain_ no goddamn less—and get hit by cars! That's not how it works! You had a responsibility and you let it go to _shit_—"

"Troy!" Gabriella said, stepping between the two of them. She faced Troy, hands on her hips and eyes narrow. "I don't care how terrified right now you are of losing Arielle, because we all feel it, too. But you know as well as I do that this is not Harris' fault, not one damn bit. So just sit down, _now_, and be quiet. None of us have anything good to say, I'm sure."

After a few minutes, one of the ceiling lights above them began to flicker. It was beginning to annoy both Sharpay and Ryan, and they took it as an opportunity to speak to one another privately. "Hey," the drama queen said nonchalantly, "I'm going to go see the front desk to get this light fixed. Ryan, hey, why don't you be my escort?"

He rose from his chair and forced a smile. "Sure thing, sis."

Out of earshot, they turned to one another. "I don't know what to do," Sharpay said with a frown. "I was their caretaker, and I let her go out on her own. This actually is my fault."

"Harris offered to go with her," Ryan pointed out. "But she said she wanted to be alone, and that means she wouldn't have wanted us to go with her, either."

"I could have told her no, though!" Sharpay squealed, now looking appalled at her reflection in the window of an empty room they stood beside. "This _is_ my fault! God, if she doesn't make it, I—"

He coughed violently in order not to hear the rest of that sentence. "Don't think like that, okay? Come on; let's get back there. This place gives me the heebie-jeebies and the sooner we get out of here, the better."

As they returned, she managed to smile and tease with a whisper, "Heebie-jeebies."

"Shut up," he retorted, grinning ever so slightly.

Troy looked up as they neared the waiting area. "Well? Are they going to come fix it?" he asked, rather impatiently.

"Fix what?" Both Evans had their rare moments of simultaneousness, this being one of them.

"The light," Gabriella supplied, pointing up to the flickering panel above them.

"Oh," Ryan said, "yeah, um, maintenance—we couldn't find them. But, uh, if we see a nurse walk by, I bet we could ask her to get someone for us."

Someone would have replied, had a surgeon in green scrubs not come down the hallway, walking rather slowly. He pulled his surgical mask down and looked at all the adults, not so sure who Arielle's parents were. Due to the fact that she had blond hair, and so did the Evans, he spoke to them. "I'm sorry, there was a lot of internal bleeding," he said, voice imaginably in a whisper. "She didn't make it."

And then the world fell apart.

**TYWY**

"We'll take Harris for the weekend, okay?" Sharpay said, eyes tearing as she spoke to Gabriella outside the hospital. She put her hand on the teenager's shoulder and exhaled the breath that had been trapped inside her since the surgeon announced Arielle's time of death, et cetera. Ryan was next to her, looking anywhere but the ground. "You and Troy, you guys out work whatever you need to."

The taxi ride home was silent. Troy and Gabriella were as close to their respective windows as possible, and had no intention of changing that. At the loft, they climbed the stairs, too impatient for the elevator, and at the door, he broke down, slamming his palm against the door. "It's not fair!"

She rested her chin on his shoulder but said nothing. Inside, he fell to pieces on the couch, and Gabriella sat beside him. It wasn't as if she wasn't sad, just as everyone else, but now was Troy's time to be emotional, or choked up. "I don't know how this happened," he said, short of breath now. "She's my daughter, I-I was supposed to take c-care of her."

Tears dried up and now he was miserable. "What happens now? I'm not supposed to live to see the day she dies, Gabriella, that's not how it's supposed to be," he moaned, and she stood up to go get them water. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. "Brie, I know what to do without her, she's my _child_, and—"

"Sweetheart," she interrupted him, holding the water bottle against her stomach. But her mind drew a blank. She had no idea what to say to him. They looked at each other and he reached for her to come sit on his lap, lips meeting as though they had never met before. Gabriella pulled away, the corner of her crying eye brushing Troy's forehead, and reached for the sky as she pushed herself off of him. "You know, I, um, I'm going to go, all right? It will be a while before—"

He leaned back against the couch and, like gravity, pulled her toward him once more. "Or," he said, his voice raspy and low and frightening, "You could stay." And they kissed again. "Gabriella. Gabriella, Gabriella, Gabriella." Her head ached each time he said her name. "I love you. I never said that enough to Ari, so I need you to know now that I have _always_ loved you, okay?"

The tears streaming down her face were heavy, standing up to shove her hands in her jacket pocket. His fingers ensnared her wrists and she leaned backward, suffocating. "Troy, honey," she was able to say, "I'm going to go now, and you probably won't see me for a little while, all right? Just, um—I'll be in touch. Harris is with Sharpay and Ryan for the weekend." She paused at the door, hand pressed up against the frame as a crutch. "In case you don't know, I love you, too. I need _you_ to know _that_ right now."

An empty apartment was one of the worst things he could have right now. Troy sat still for a little while, wondering when things became different, wondering what he would have not done in order to keep Arielle alive. Finally, he remembered that gift he had been planning to give her for a while now. The new iPod; she lost hers in the fire. Now he wanted to know what music she would have put on it, what play lists she would have liked, what games she would have downloaded. "God, damn it," he said agonizingly, looking down at the floor. He remembered the song he heard on the radio a few days after Gabriella left for the second time, thirteen years before.

It was John Mayer's 'Dreaming With a Broken Heart', the lyrics ridiculously ironic. _When you're dreaming with a broken heart, the __giving up is the hardest part. She takes you in with your crying eyes, then all at once you have to say goodbye, wondering could you stay my love? Will you wake up by my side? No she can't, 'cause she's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone…_

"Please don't leave me," he whispered, charging into the hallway and bolting down the stairs. "Don't be gone, you can't leave. I already have lost one, I need you now."

When he got down to the sidewalk, Troy searched the street frantically for Gabriella, thinking she had walked off in some direction, but instead, he found her sitting against the building, crying against her sleeve. He came to sit down beside her, and this time he wrapped his arms around her. "I can't leave you," she said to him. "After thirteen years, I really want to stay. That's okay, right?"

She felt him nod. "I didn't want you to leave, either. I kind of, sort of, _really_ need you to be in my life. I don't know how I went for so long without you."

_She says if I leave before you darling_

_Don't you waste me in the ground_

_I lay smiling like our sleeping children_

_One of us will die inside these arms_

_Eyes wide open_

_Naked as we came_

_One will spread our_

_Ashes round the yard_

A/N- Oh, I forgot to add this; the TG scene at the end is a Brooke/Lucas from _One Tree Hill_ inspiration. :) -love- Desireé


	26. Heal

A/N- So, this whole story took me nearly a year to write. I have absolutely no idea why, I've never really had issues with time before, but TYWY was a challenge. I've spent weeks upon weeks trying to perfect this last chapter… Hopefully it suffices.

To anyone who has actually stuck with it from start to finish, thank you! You guys are so supportive and it's really helped me with writing. Any latecomers: hopefully this wasn't that confusing, haha. Well, I am planning to make this the last HSM fanfic I write, but I'm guessing there will be some one-shots here and there, especially considering…

I've seen High School Musical 3 twice now. I'm planning to see it again in the coming weeks. My obsession? Totally not normal. Am I okay with it? Yes. Is Zac Efron once again insanely hot? _Oh, yeah_. :) -love- Desireé

Chapter Twenty-Six, Heal

_Fill these spaces up with days_

_in my room you can go you can stay;_

_I can't sleep. I can't speak to you_

_I can't sleep_

_Now these years locked in my drawer_

_I'll open to see just to be sure_

_-'Sleep', Azure Ray_

It is harder to keep quiet when you have nothing to say. This quote, coming from an unremembered source of her childhood, had forever perplexed Gabriella until the day of Arielle's memorial, where the Original Six (plus Harris) stood silently as a pastor said some empty, religious words about life and its meaning. They were all going speak eventually; everyone was to say something about the dearly departed, nice or touching or whatever emotional adjective they wanted to use. The ashes sat at the head of the room, the spirit of Arielle spinning in the same spot over and over again. Cassandra was nowhere to be found.

On the way back to the loft, the silence in the rental car became increasingly painful, minute by minute. Gabriella squirmed and fidgeted in the front seat, wondering just how hard it was to spend five minutes of noiselessness. It turns out, it's _really_ hard. Like, so difficult she thought she'd burst out laughing due to her nerves if Harris didn't shake things up.

"I thought," he suggested rather loudly for the hushed day they were having, "we could take a road trip—a real one, this time—to Albuquerque, and spread Ari's ashes there. You know, there are not a lot of places here that mean much to her. But she always liked visiting Grandpa Jack and Grandma Lucile. They couldn't make the memorial, so they would probably be happy to help us out for the weekend."

"We'll see," Troy said, eyes bouncing back toward his son in the rear view mirror.

"I think it's a great idea," Gabriella told him, chin in hand as she rested on the console between the seats. "The three of us could go."

Troy's stoic face didn't flicker. "I said we'll see." And for the time being, that was that.

_At the loft, Gabriella decides it's best to remind everyone that just because a person has died doesn't mean they're really gone._

Hot chocolate warmed their trembling natures in the dining room. Troy had left the heater off when they arrived back at the apartment, and the subzero feeling was identical to their personalities. "I had a dream about Ari last night," Harris told his mother when Troy had gone to answer the phone in the other room—probably more people calling to say how regretful it is to lose such a young life. Empty, empty, empty words.

"Oh?" Gabriella replied, nursing her mug close to her chest. "What was it about?"

"There was a memorial for her, like today, except it was at a beach, for some reason. And there were _so_ many people, crowds upon crowds of friends and family I didn't even recognize. Everyone was running back and forth, getting things ready, and in the mix of it all, there was Arielle, standing plain and tall like nothing was different. She saw me, and smiled from across the way. I heard her, it was her voice," Harris paused to gulp down some hot chocolate, "and she said softly, 'Don't worry, big brother. You'll get your happy ending soon. I'm okay, all right?' And then she disappeared. Or I woke up. Whichever it was."

An uncomfortable feeling of unfamiliarity settled inside Gabriella as she watched her son grow up in all of fifteen seconds. She had missed this, all of it, by hiding out in a small town that she thought could fix her problems. It hurts to be wrong. "Maybe you should tell your father that," she said, leaning forward. "I know he'd find some solace in the report of Arielle's well-being."

"Dreams don't mean anything, not to him; he wouldn't take me seriously," Harris said, clenching his jaw. "I can't tell him anything. He's not that kind of sentimental parent, one that you probably would be. Dad's been raised on Monkey See, Monkey Do. He learned basketball that way, he watched you sing the first lyric of that karaoke song, but no one helped him with this being a father gig. He—he _sucks_ at it." Once he said this, Harris exhaled a long, drawn-out breath, and Gabriella saw what relief it gave him.

Monkey See, Monkey Do. Troy was very much like that; he never knew how to take that first step on his own. Gabriella hadn't minded playing teacher; why had it never occurred to her that, after she left, things wouldn't change? He'd still need the training wheels. He still needed them _now_. And so did she.

"My child, you are allowed to do whatever you wish to do, but I'll try to be the sentimental parent and say this. You're smart; I know that much, and you make wise decisions. If anything, your father needs to know he isn't alone in this. I'm a variable in this equation—just substituting for now but I can work with the math pretty well. You're another integer. Go, be with him and figure this out. The dream helped you, right? It will help him." Mathematical metaphors could only assist her now.

_Don't worry, big brother. You'll get your happy ending soon. I'm okay, all right?_ Harris wanted to believe this was true, that Arielle was still around in some way. But there was the sinking feeling that people just see what they want to see, and this was just a dream that he wanted to dream. "Harris," Gabriella brought him out of his thoughtful misery, "There's no food in the kitchen, so I'm going to go get us something to eat. You know what to do."

After years of being pushed away, Harris couldn't bring himself to say what he wanted, needed to be heard. Troy reappeared just as Gabriella was leaving; they exchanged a short kiss and she murmured something inaudible. Troy raised a brow and looked at Harris, this gangly teenager with a dark face and black hair and blue eyes and nowhere to go. "I've been planning what to say," he panted, "to you for years, in case this ever came up. I was going to tell you how much emotional damage you caused by shutting me out; I was going to let you know when I have kids, I'm not going to be the distant father you are to me. But now, standing here with the chance to tell you everything, I just can't care anymore. I'm going out with Mom."

From the hallway, Gabriella listened with a saddened smile, feelings conflicting inside her. Happy to be called a mother, disappointed to see her broken family. Harris walked past her, stood in the doorway with his jacket crawling over him. "Ready?" he asked shortly.

She sighed and looked the other way, as if expecting Troy to appear, to make an effort. But the other end of the hall was cleared, and the television blasted in the other room. Nothing was really that different, she realized. Arielle stood plain and tall, because nothing was different.

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We come from the same place that will take us back once time is up._

"School is completely relevant. You can't convince me otherwise, Harris, you _will_ be going back," Gabriella replied as they stood up to get off the subway train that had been taking them home. A flow of people ran through the station, and they made sure to stay close as they maneuvered their way to the sidewalk, up above ground and sucking in oxygen, stale with cigarette smoke and taxi cab fumes.

Troy had not seen sunlight for probably four days now. He kept the curtains of his windows closed, and barely surfaced other than early in the morning and late at night. Gabriella decided to skip this battle, and opted for sleeping on the couch. No one had touched Arielle's room since the memorial.

"We're back," Gabriella called out, in case Troy was around. She looked around the corner of the hallway, and sighed. His bedroom was still closed off, and she stopped the pity parade she had been hosting all this time, patiently. Her knuckles collided with the door and she didn't let up until he finally answered. Troy looked worn, gray circling his eyes like an approaching rainstorm and the shadow of a man on his jaw line in the form of facial hair. Gabriella's impatient exterior softened, and she went with her first instinct—to hug him.

"I really miss her," he said against her shoulder, standing in the doorway like a person not sure which way they wished to go. Memories flooded him and he thought out loud, "You know, when she was six or seven, we were really happy. It was for only a little while; I had just married Cassandra but she was away for a shoot, and the kids were relieved to have just me around. That's probably the first time I realized I really loved them. I don't know why it took me so long before."

Teary-eyed and emotional, Gabriella fanned her face and smiled. "Some of us are late bloomers," she quipped, speaking for the both of them. He smiled sheepishly and she nudged him with her elbow. "I know you miss her, and so do I, but you still have Harris. You still have _me_. I just think that it'd be good to get up, and get some air. Take a walk."

He blinked and turned away from her. "I don't want to—I think I'll just stay here."

Exasperation rushed back to her and she took hold of his arm, while the image of Baby Harris crumbling to the ground scared her briefly. Chills ran down her spine and she breathed out. "Troy, stop being silly. You have to come with us, it'll be fun."

"First of all," he retaliated, spinning back toward her. Her fingers snapped as they were forced to withdraw their grasp on him. "I don't _have_ to do anything."

There was a sad truth to this, but she grimaced at him anyway. "Just like I didn't _have_ to come back. Just like Harris doesn't _have_ to be this good of a son to us even though we've been gone—literally and figuratively—for a good chunk of his life," she said just as fiercely. "I came back because I've missed you for so long, and because I was sick of pretending to be happy. Harris, well, quite frankly, I have no fucking idea how he's coping with us, the dysfunctional item who may or may not still be romantically linked."

Normally, Troy would have been dramatic and kissed her, or something along those lines, but he thought back to a Christmas party, a long time before that, where he had discovered Arielle and Harris hiding from the drunken and loud event. _I think if Dad had an entourage, we'd be a much less dysfunctional family_. And he had replied plain and simple, _We're not dysfunctional_. But even that was a lie in itself, and so he started to laugh—mostly because that was all one could do in such a situation.

"What are you doing?" Gabriella put her hands on her hips, looking furious at this point. He wanted her to laugh along with him, to know that he wasn't alone, but she didn't seem to get the joke. Well, of course not, she wasn't there that day. In fact, she'd only been in his life for, what, a few weeks? No more than a month. It was February. They saw each other on Christmas Eve. It had been so long before then. "Troy?"

The apartment began to reel and he rubbed his eyes, letting the weaknesses shine through. "Gabriella, I am not in the mood to be around anyone right now, okay?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me for trying to bring you back to earth! Jesus, Troy, is this a _Law + Order_ episode or something? Are you going to come out of your depression and just fucking realize that there are other people in your life, people _other_ than Arielle—"

He pushed her against the wall, his forearm parallel to her collarbone just firmly enough so she stayed put for a second. Gabriella could see would-be tears in his eyes, forming in spite of his best efforts to keep a manly front. He spoke quietly, "I _know_ I have both of you. I know there are still a lot of fucking people in my life, people other than Arielle Delaney Bolton. But she's gone, and somehow, at this moment, I feel like she was all I had before. And I took advantage of that. Now I've paid the price, and I _know_ you and Harris are here, but right now, I can't tell you that's enough. I just can't."

As quickly as she could, Gabriella made space between them and she pursed her lips. "I'm leaving," she said, softly like she remembered, "and I'm taking Harris with me." She waited, to watch the expected déjà vu spasm in his eyes. "I know. It's the same moment as the one too long ago. Except, this time, you know where I'm going. And you have the chance to come with us."

He looked so tired, his posture feeble and his long arms drooping by his sides, pulling toward the ground. She gave him a second, and gripped the knob of the door, nodding. "Remember that night, the night we finally got on the same page? I was so happy to feel like I knew you again, to come to some sort of truce, like a _cease-fire_—but now we're back to square one. I'm holding on for the old Troy Bolton."

"The one who played basketball and could carry a tune?" he asked.

"The one who can paint a picture in the meantime of mayhem, and still be the best father he can be," she corrected him, and smiled. "We'll leave tomorrow. You know what to do."

Far from it, he thought. But he contemplated the way she walked away, much more gracefully than before. He had a second chance, the opportunity to say he was sorry. He owed her that much, if not a great deal more.

**TYWY**

"I'd like to just go with you," Harris said.

"I'd like to get a haircut, but the salon is too expensive for my taste and split ends are to me as snakes are to Medusa," Gabriella replied, stuffing what clothes she had garnered from Sharpay in recent times. They had spoken very little to the Evans, other than _thank you_ and _it's okay_. Everyone wanted to get back to the way things were, but complications—unknown, unreasonable, unexplainable complications—got in the way.

Harris frowned, looking at a picture of him and Arielle in his lap. They were ten and twelve, respectively, holding sparklers on the Fourth of July. That was a happy day. "I don't want him to come."

"There's a chance he won't." She crossed her fingers behind her back. He wouldn't let them leave again. Not when she laid the map out in front of him so easily.

"Well, I'm thinking that if it's just you and me, we can go live in Albuquerque all merry and happy and I can just forget about this place."

She looked up and bit her lower lip, resisting a grin. "And what shall we do with your father?"

Before Harris could reply, Troy appeared in the doorway, still infirm but a little less hunched over than before. "I'm coming," he said, trying to smile. "We can leave in the morning, right?"

Harris looked rather disappointed as he avoided his father's glance, keeping to himself from where he sat. Gabriella considered the moment, for whether it triumph or a failure, and went to wrap her arms around Troy. He smelled like Dial body wash, the kind she remembered loving in high school, and clean laundry. "I knew you'd come around," she sighed. He nodded and said something about calling April, who had not been able to make it to the memorial, either.

"I miss my sister," he said, and looked at Harris, who nodded a fraction of an inch. This was the renovation of a father-son dynamic, soaking up the strength that came in this new common ground.

**TYWY**

Jack and Lucile Bolton were overjoyed to hear Gabriella on the phone, asking if they could come to stay with them for a little while. "We'd be happy to have you three," Lucille said, choking down the last word as she once again remembered Arielle would no longer be there. "I'm so glad you've decided to come down. Jack and I were so disappointed to know we'd be missing the memorial."

The following morning, Troy's Range Rover sat in the apartment garage, perfectly shiny and not a scratch on it. He had sent his agent, Greta, to get it in Sampson, and gave her a second task when she arrived at the loft. "I need you to clear everything out of here," he said, thinking particularly of Arielle's bedroom. At this, he shivered, knowing he would never have the strength to do this himself. Some things would never get easier. "We'll probably be living in Albuquerque for a while. Maybe rent this place out. So much history, it deserves someone."

Neither Harris nor Gabriella knew that Troy was planning to leave New York for good. He imagined a nice house, a nice balcony, a nice hammock, a nice everything for the three of them. The city was quite overwhelming, and so the neighborhood where everything—what should have been his began might be a good place to start over.

The Range Rover purred when he started the engine. Gabriella sat in the passenger seat, and Harris was in the back with a book and a sober expression. "You guys hungry?" Troy asked.

"No," both Gabriella and Harris replied in unison. Each of them was caught up in another world, and he thought this only to be fair, as he had spent days in his room, hiding from the inevitable: talking. And now that neither wanted to speak to him, Troy decided to respect their wishes.

"Well, um, just so you know, there's supposed to be some wet weather in the next couple of hours, across the border, so, uh, just know…" He drifted off, to see if either of them would look up and wait for the finishing part of the sentence. Neither did, so Troy pulled out of the parking garage, mentally waved goodbye to that part of his life, and cringed at the thought of Arielle's ashes tucked away in Harris' duffle bag. She was worth much more than another piece of luggage, but he realized she was now like gunpowder, and still the same explosive little child in their lives.

**TYWY**

Windshield wipers danced in front of her face, _wish-wash, wish-wash_, over and over as rain pounced on the earth and the frost on the glass spread like the common cold. Gabriella breathed out, looking at Troy, who was watching the road diligently as if nervous another car would come barreling in their direction, on this empty highway. She was about to say something, but then his cell phone rang a distant tune he wished he didn't remember.

That name burned into his eyes as he watched the caller ID flash on the screen. He didn't even realize her number had never been erased, even after the divorce papers made their way to his mailbox. "I have to take this call," he said, and pulled over to the turnpike shoulder. Troy opened his door, and Gabriella raised an eyebrow.

"Who is it?"

"Cassandra," he said flatly, and closed the door behind him. It was pouring buckets, but he held his jacket above his head, standing beneath a symphony of thunder, getting wet and not caring. She imagined him waltzing, like the day on the rooftop at school, in black Converse sneakers and tuxedo jacket. Gabriella found herself smiling, even if she hated the fact that he was talking to someone who shouldn't have been calling in the first place.

"You can go get him, you know," Harris said, not looking up from his book.

She turned around, fingers grasping the headrest of the seat. "What do you mean?"

Black hair in his eyes, Harris glanced at her and folded the corner of the already dog-eared page he was reading. "I mean, you can get out, and tell him to hang up. She's calling to say she's sorry, that she needs to see him, blah, blah, blah. I know the routine. And I know Dad can fall for it. But you love him, right? So go get him."

It seemed so easy, for only a moment, that Gabriella could unbuckle her seatbelt, drag herself over to Troy, and end the call as she declared their infinite love for each other. But then she wondered how desperate that would seem, or how manipulative he would view her. He paced in front of the car, head lights shining on his legs each way he walked. "I don't know what to tell him," she said to Harris, "other than the fact that I'm just jealous that he's actually still talking to her. I'm jealous that after all this, I'm not the only girl in his life."

"Maybe that's all he needs to hear. Dad's just a little blind, but not stupid. He loves you more than he has ever loved Cassandra, which is hard to believe in the first place. You have nothing to worry about. I promise."

She pursed her lips, smiling, and looked back at him for the second time. "For an ignored and abandoned little kid, you sure did a damn good job of raising yourself."

The downpour made Harris quiver as he wondered what exactly angels in heaven did during heavy storms, or what they did at all. Arielle must not like this type of weather. "I try," the teenager said, and nodded outside. "Go on."

She chewed on her lower lip and finally opened the passenger door. The Range Rover's emergency light turned out in this dark, dark climate and she braced herself for vulnerability, something from which Troy had suffered much longer than she ever had.

"Cassandra, we're on the road—" Troy stopped when he saw Gabriella approach him, and in turn the headlights transformed her into a silhouette. He could barely see her face, but he noticed her cheeks were damp, and not just from the rain. Troy turned his back to her, still on the phone, and proceeded with the conversation. Gabriella panicked and looked back toward the car, trying to signal to Harris that she couldn't do this. He leaned forward, between the front seats, and shrugged, as if to say, _if you can't do it, then don't do it._

"I need to do this, though," she replied, and swallowed. Her fingers tapped Troy on the back, and he spun around, looking irritated.

"_What?_"

Thunderclaps rolled above them like unraveling secrets, and Gabriella said gently, loud enough so he could hear her, "I don't think you should be talking to her anymore."

"God damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Cass, I'll call you back." Troy shoved the phone into his pocket and looked at Gabriella, the hood of his jacket heavy as it soaked up more and more water. "I haven't signed those fucking papers yet, Gabriella, and in case you've forgotten, our daughter—the baby girl I had with _Cassandra_, not you—is _dead_! Why the hell would I not be talking to her?"

This left a stinging slap on her face, even though she knew what he said was absolute; Gabriella narrowed her eyes. "Because I'm here!" she finally snapped, and ran a hand through her sopping hair. "Because she didn't show up for your own daughter's memorial, as if she really had other things to worry about. Because you guys don't have to be chatting it up in the middle of a storm about the divorce _she_ initiated." Her voice was getting more off-key with every passing syllable. "Because I'm freaking insecure over that six-foot-whatever goddess who at one point in life, loved you the same way I love you now. Because this is my fault, but I'm trying to make up for it, you know? And because you're not meeting me at a halfway point!"

He thought of _their _son, Harris, sitting in the car, watching his parents fight like they would have had Gabriella never left. Troy wondered if he should stop, if he should just let Gabriella be right and not have any say in the matter, but that's not how it worked with his parents. That's not how it worked with his grandparents, or his aunts and uncles, or any couple he ever knew that had the right to happiness, like they did. If Troy held his silence then, it would only be another halfway point that she reached, and he did not.

"I think I had the feeling you were somewhere near New York still, after you left. I think that when I got in the car to drive aimlessly, a subconscious part of me was going in the direction that would lead me to you. And you know the problem with that? _You_ never got around to balancing out the trip. You turned into the black sheep of my life, the person who stayed away, and I know you wanted someone to find you, but how do I find something that, essentially, doesn't _want_ to be found? What do I do then? I waited for you to come back, and you never did. So don't lecture me about halfway points, Gabriella Freaking Montez, because you don't know _anything_ about the kind of pain that comes with an empty middle ground."

Raindrops beaded her hairline like a bandana, and she smoothed them out with a placid touch. He watched tears roll down her face, and speculated over the possibility of _Troy and Gabriella_. They were that couple that everyone rooted for, even the pink and fabulous Sharpays of the world. And then he tried to imagine what Cassandra thought of them, if she ever really loved him all that much, or if she even realized that her only child—who never lived to have her first kiss, or go to a high school dance, or throw a graduation cap up in the air with her friends—was the reason that cinematic perfection like _Troy and Gabriella_ rarely ever succeeds in real life.

And now for the honesty, like Harris had suggested. "The plain and simple truth is that I always have been jealous of her," Gabriella said, stepping close to him so she wouldn't have to yell. Troy studied the space that disappeared between them—the space she had made when they fought at the loft—and nodded, breathing outward to steady himself. "And I probably always will be, because she got the chance to do that young couple, raising a family thing with you, which I voluntarily forfeited. That was a mistake." Their shirts stuck together, sopping, as she pressed her forehead against his mouth, and it was as if she was feeding him all the thoughts and feelings she could not express, and all the thoughts and feelings he could not understand.

They paused for a moment, before he began to hum and tilted his head back so he faced the sky. Troy stuck out his tongue, and she recognized the tune. It was ancient, a Barney jingle that they learned as little children, which Gabriella had wanted to teach Harris, and the babies to follow him. She smiled and sang, "If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops, oh what a rain it would be. Standing outside with my mouth open wide singing—"

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah," Troy finished; the sound contorted slightly as more thunder unfurled above them, now in the form of forgotten memories. He finally looked at her and smiled, and blinked away tears he tried to pass off as rainfall. She pulled him into a kiss, and it would have probably gotten a little more impassioned had Harris not been chuckling from the front seat, and honked the horn. They sprang apart, and each dissolved into their own laughter, a huge relief as they stood beneath what was a part of Arielle's haunting death.

It felt good to laugh again, and finally not feel that cumbersome guilt that snuck up on you when you were expecting a more benevolent remorse. They were getting off their tiptoes, finally feeling sure-footed again in the wake of a groundless loss.

She wrung out her hair as she leaned into him, and he kissed the top of her head, humming again that simple music that made her smile as they waltzed in the middle of nowhere, among nature's garden, in a random thunderstorm that had come abruptly but appropriately. "If all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, oh what a snow it would be…"

**TYWY**

Grandma Lucille and Grandpa Jack looked thrilled to see their only grandchild, and their only son, and the practical daughter-in-law they had missed for so long. "You look terrific!" Lucille exclaimed to a bashful, damp Gabriella, who imagined hugging her mother when they embraced in the Boltons' Albuquerque driveway. She had yet to call Theresa, but she would soon. When she got her strength back. "Oh, sweetie, I am so glad to see you," Lucille insisted, watching her husband greet Troy and Harris. "Troy has needed you, with every passing day after things fell apart, when you kids were young. He would never admit it, but Troy couldn't get on much longer without you there."

_"I didn't want you to leave, either. I kind of, sort of, really need you to be in my life. I don't know how I went for so long without you."_ Gabriella smiled to herself, and decided to keep that conversation a secret, just for the two of them. She nodded at Lucille and said, "I'm happy to back. It was getting too hard to pretend I didn't miss them."

As Harris unpacked his bags, he thought of the Polaroid Arielle had found in their father's closet, the one of Gabriella at the Autumn Social some several years ago. She was smiling, off to the side in Troy's direction, and he missed the photograph all of the sudden. He missed proof of his parents' happiness before all of this, before him, before the many confessionals, which he still couldn't face all on his own. "You all right?" Troy asked, sidling next to him. They surveyed the damage, the bags filled with memories and emptiness and promises and anguish.

"I told Mom," Harris began, his voice breathy and his hands reaching for the box of his sister's ashes, "that I was a miserable fifteen-year-old, right around the time she came back to New York. It was a flawed revelation. I was just being dramatic. Like Ari." Troy winced, still sensitive to the name. "I think I was trying to let her know how much I hated her for a long time. How much I despised the idea of trying to find her, and loved it at the same time so I could give her a big fat _fuck you_, and then we found Gabriella, and I traded places with Arielle. I ended up loving Mom, and she hated her, and she hated you, and I got around to thinking maybe you weren't that bad."

An arrow ran through Troy's chest, and he breathed in the scent he imagined Arielle carried with her, wherever she was now. He remembered the conversation with Gabriella, about what made you a bad person—the things you did or did not do. "I wish I could have been different. That's a long time to keep pretending nothing was wrong with a crappy parent."

Harris nodded at the box in his arms. "That's a long time to go without the person you want to be with, so, I guess we're even. Mom's pretty great now." This was almost a lie—he still harbored bitter feelings, for the abandonment, the physical lack of a mother and the psychological deficiency in his father. But he decided to be patient, to wait for the destination he had once thought would never come. On this journey, he knew he was a few steps ahead of his parents, both crazy in love and crazy in life, and that he would need to stick around and let them catch up once in a while. If anything, Harris decided to do this for Arielle, who was the reason for all of it. For the fortune cookies, for the power outage that swept her up into a dust pan and carried her away, for the fire, for the rain, for the kisses, for the reunion.

Arielle had a purpose in life, and it was in the way that she gave up hers.

"I can see it now," Troy said, smiling. "Harris Bolton, star author, with a new memoir coming out. You're pretty eloquent, even though it's your sister who had the way with words before."

They both felt a chill, one they thought perhaps was the wind and therefore decided not to announce, but it maybe was a passing spirit. The spirit of a smile, the spirit of a child, or perhaps, the spirit of Arielle. She had given him everything he claimed to have never wanted, and now he stood here, with an apologetic parent and ashes of the energy he knew he had felt. Harris closed his eyes, nodded, and said, "It's interesting that the soul sticks around until it finishes what it came here to do. Then it's time to go home."

Troy looked down at his son, and for once, didn't see Gabriella. The black curls belonged to Harris, as did the blue eyes and the tan skin and the lopsided grin. Troy saw his teenaged son, fifteen years old and still growing, and beamed. Arielle smiled from heaven, and Gabriella watched from the Boltons' front porch, feeling her old roots come to life again.

**TYWY**

"I don't feel like a tumbleweed anymore," Gabriella said, coming to sit beside Troy. He was in the backyard, holding a basketball, looking up at the hoop that was seldom used. The net was missing, and he could see the dent on the backboard, still there from a wild senior year.

"Why have you ever felt like a tumbleweed?" he asked, glancing at her.

"Sampson never became my home. It was a part of me, but I didn't feel cozy there, _ever_. Reaching the border here felt good." Gabriella looked down at her body, torso in a gray long-sleeved sweater, legs in hip-huggers (after a baby, she could fill those out like a gem), and feet in sneakers. She looked at Troy, in a t-shirt, jeans, and Converse. "We haven't changed, that much. And so Albuquerque is like this old, magical movie that I loved as a little kid. Right here, it's like we're eighteen, and I don't feel so old. That basketball is like a memento, and Harris is the Medal of Honor, and the setting sun is the same one we watched thirteen years ago."

Troy leaned forward and rolled the ball so it curbed at the grass line. "It's hard to let go of some things," he agreed, "so it's nice to know that not everything is different."

Jack, Lucille, and Harris watched from the window toward the back of the house. Harris exaggerated his distaste for their schmoozy interactions. Beside the kiss in the rain, Gabriella and Troy had only briefly embraced afterward. He was just being dramatic again, but this time, it was for fun.

"Oh, they're cute," Lucille said, clasping her hands and smiling.

"I'm not one for PDA," Jack said. He kissed his wife's temple and walked away, toward the kitchen, leaving his grandchild to revel in the way Troy and Gabriella so easily found themselves again.

The cement beneath them was hard on Gabriella's elbows as she reclined against the ground. Troy smiled, legs crossed like a little kid, and she said, "Only a few months ago we'd forgotten about one another."

Troy did an ashamed tut-tut of his tongue and looked at her, eyebrows furrowing. "How ever did we survive?"

"I don't know." She shrugged, and he leaned down, his breath hot on her face in the form of minty freshness. Gabriella smiled at his lips, perfect in their age and she said, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"But that's so boring," Troy whined, and he turned his body around fully so he lay next to her, back facing the sky. He thought for a moment and utilized the one English lesson that he remembered from high school. "Shakespeare said the course of true love never did run smooth."

Eyes bright, Gabriella finally held his face and kissed him, her worries of being a mother, and being a good person, and making things meaningful melting away as she let herself lie in the coming rainstorm and be with the one person who made everything worthwhile. "You remembered that line, after all these years?" she asked, her cheeks flushed.

"It's the only explanation that could calm me after thirteen years without you. It suits us pretty well, don't you think?" She laughed and he pulled her into his lap.

From the house, Harris protested with a secret grin and Lucille patted his shoulder kindly. Jack smiled from his office upstairs, seeing his son's happiness, so late in season. Somewhere, Sharpay Evans was telling Ryan Evans "I told you so"; Chad and Taylor Danforth were celebrating with simple glasses of wine and affection. Above them, Arielle nodded approvingly, and wiped her hands on her jeans—angels could wear whatever they wanted in heaven—before turning back to the other beings who were waiting for her, patiently, to finish what she had gone to do.

Troy kissed Gabriella, fourteen times, and she figured it was his lucky jersey number. "No, no, not at all," he told her, his arms snaking around her waist. "Fourteen, for the thirteen years we spent apart, and for the new one to come, the one where we get that happy ending we were never promised."

"My, my, Troy Bolton," she said, fanning her face, "I've missed you."

And there was a simple grace to the way everything fell back into place, as his hand rested on the small of her back and she reached her arm up to hook around his neck once more. Tomorrow would bring more trials and triumphs; next week, Harris would be embarrassed by their silly, parental selves; some time in the future, there would be a falling out, and it would take a few days for him to get back into her good graces—but she would only be teasing him by then. This moment, on the basketball court with bodies singing as they blended together, did not bring perfection, but by itself, it was harmonious.

She knew there would be bridges to build again, and he was well aware of the fact that they would have some difficulties getting back into the rhythm of living together. In time, they would have their second chance and reach the happy ending they were never promised, with two wedding rings and thoughts of another baby and songs to sing as they basked in the sunshine of each other, as they had the number thirteen to remind them why they were together. It was the symbol of the war they won, the symbol of Arielle, the symbol of Harris, and the symbol of times to come. The course of true love never did run smooth, but they could learn from all of it. They had this time, together, and for the people after them to go through the same struggles, they wished them luck. Troy reached for the gold chain Gabriella had replaced around her neck, and let it fall between his fingers. He knew not to break it this time—she would hide no longer, after thirteen years of hurting, learning, resolving, and healing.

A/N- Questions? Review, guys and gals. This has been amazing; in the end, I'm happy with the story. Until next time, -love- Desireé


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